(THE CAR)
They crashed the car in our front yard. Somebody exfoliated the mobile machine. Left it in the front yard, their bottles might be broken? I never understood what had happened to there being? But somebody had been driving, blood stamped upon the ceiling. He had shattered the glass on the front seat window, Left a drink next to his packets of cigars, I hadn't understood what exactly was needed of them? Given I didn't understand the concept of underage addiction. His friend Terrence had been driving with him. They found him locked in the seat, he told the police: and my father: the driver's name was Anthony.
A honda. Graying white. Cracked windshield, car mirrors grimed, filthy with the gunk of a few unwashed years, the windows pulled down on the sides, radio still going, playing some song that I had heard a few thousand times beforehand. A fair layer of Bird shit stampeled on the car roof, drooping down over the sides, where since I was aware that they had never cleaned their outer layers. Muffler dented, splattered backside and trunk with soot.
The scene was a death toll in a wildly, never logically glimpsed imagination. This one being my own. Full of dragons, and fantasia's crafted upon thoughts of color and whimsy. All and all, a childish collection of...Mindfuckery Did my father know the whereabouts of the boy? That Tarrence said's name was Anthony. No of course not. No one did, a few of our neighbors said, in night dresses they stood and watched from the window, and saw him walking around the wreck. Drunkenly stumbling onto the dirt. However they didn't know where he went. The road was sugar coated in shadow. This includes the small patches of smoke clouds from the exploding tire. That sent flicking sparks down the lane. Of peaceful suburban houses.
The police told my family, my mother, my father, my sister- and me: that Tarrence was seeing a ward in the IU. stating he was the only one that knew what had occurred. Had he been in his right mind, he would've relayed the details. But instead lay in the nearby station speaking in a tongue off beat of rationality. They told my father this. Before the scene occurred. "He spoke three words, that's all we could get out of him: don't open it- we guess that means the vehicle, soon it will be removed from your premises but until now its not affecting the flow of the street. So it will have to remain there."
I was curious and in a delighted spiral of swirling hot air of a day-the kind of hot day, that made you sweat your ass off. I decided it may be time- three weeks with the automobile cast and turnt on the ruptured blades of grass, obliterated shrapnel, concealed within our lawn. That I decided to take a look at its visage. With a trash bag in one hand. A pair of cloro
x wipes. I treaded out to the car, with a thoughtful mind. My father asked me to clean out the seats, saying "mother wants to get rid of it, and we need to get their belongings out of that trash heap."
Bottle by bottle, I understood what was happening. Where I grew up, some people lived their life in bottles, some people liked the way it felt, some people wanted to kill their sorrows. He was in a loud room of alcohol, flashing lights, changing day by night, when somebody approached him, his friend in the seductive light-
"Why are you babysitting only two or three shots? You must get a bottle after all the lights go off, then you get a swimming pool full of liquor then you dive in it. That's the way to live."
Once I approached the stainless doors, which were dented in the sides. I felt the handle between my cold white fingers pulling it in an upward jerk. Where tumbled out take out boxes, beer flasks, cigarette holders, napkins stained with grease. When however I got to the trunk, my heart released from its capsule of rot iron chains. As I saw: His eyes open and glossy, his hands drawn to his throat, a coppery fire of a liquid spilling from within his palm, a shattered glass. His motionless limp body laying underneath the trunk. Anthony had drawn his last breath. Taken his last breath. With one too many drinks. Crippled, and gone. Fear built within my chest, writhing and twisting like ivy, sweltering and spitting like a black headed serpent. I stumbled back, a few gasps and cries forming underneath a layer of curiosity and confidence. All of which was taken by the corpse. I in a tirade sprinted back into my house, tripping and busting my knee on the step, crashing into the doorframe.
