Personal Narrative- The Fatal Car Accident
I always hear those old sayings. In the course of one day I can hear them about everything from retraining old dogs to getting up early. I think they make sense and I even ponder on some of them, but I never really thought one might mean as much to me, or become as realistic as it has become in my life. The clichés about telling those you love, how you feel, before it is too late and the ones about living every day like it is your last have an all new meaning to me.
I remember it like it happened yesterday. I am sprawled out on my bed doing homework. The phone rings for what seems like the hundredth time that evening. I answer it with a snap of annoyance. My best friend, Stephanie, on the other end, does not respond to my welcome with the usual "What are you doing?" I immediately know something is wrong. This time, her response is "Who, at school, drives a white Honda CRX?" Stephanie proceeds to explain the fatal car accident she is driving past on Interstate 81.
I begin to think. Most people at school park in the same spot everyday. I suppose the easiest way to figure out the owner is to picture the parking lot row by row, level by level. The car is not coming to mind anywhere. I know it does not sit with all of the muddy 4x4 pick-ups down on the so-called "redneck level." And I know it does not wait all day on the middle level in front of my waiting car. But, at the same time, I have never seen it parked on the top level that I walk through twice a day. I can’t picture a CRX anywhere.
This comforts me somewhat, because I know the cars of all of my good friends and the cars of most of the other people at school. At the same time it troubles me. Maybe someone drove their parent’s or sibling’s CRX. All night long I imagine who the victims could be. Nobody ever comes to mind. By the time I get to school the next morning, I have all but convinced myself that I don’t know anyone who drives a white CRX.
The bell rings and school jumps into action. Immediately the halls worry with the buzz of whispered questions and curious rumors. The bits and pieces of the past night’s events that I over-hear in the hallway on the way to the locker tell me of the trauma. In the ten short minutes...