THE TRUCK

My truck is back. A month after the accident, it gleams in the driveway, the same unmarred candy apple red as the day of my sixteenth birthday, the day I got it.

The day I got my truck had been the happiest day of my life. The day that my father had handed over the keys his eyes had sparkled with pride and happiness. Now, as he hands back the keys, his eyes are tired and sad, with nothing left to be happy about.

“Son…” he starts to say, something in his voice almost begging me to respond.

I look at him for a moment, then brush past him, keys in hand, walking back into the house, back into my room. I shove the keys in a drawer and collapse on my bed, praying for a dreamless sleep.

He’s still outside, staring at the truck.

I wake up the next morning on the floor, having unknowingly fallen off the bed during the night. I lay there, staring at the familiar clutter under the bed until the alarm goes off, and I get up to start my day.

The kitchen is empty as I enter after my morning routine. After 3 weeks of uncomfortable silence over breakfast, my parents have realized my discomfort and leave me alone to wander the house.

I leave the house earlier than usual, making a wide berth around the truck. Someone has moved it to the furthest corner of the driveway, and it sits there sinisterly, out of place between the cheery Christmas decorations we have forgotten to take down. I am glad the sun has not yet risen, as the shine of the gloss would be almost nauseating this early in the morning.

At school, I am the first one there, the last one to leave. My teachers ignore me and the students whisper, but anything they do is better than the awkward silences at my house. I stay till it is dark and, just when the outside lights are starting to turn on, I meander home, weaving side to side like a drunk to delay the inevitable.

The truck greets me in the driveway, and I quickly rush past it into the house. My mother sits in the kitchen, going through a brightly-colored box. I stop as I see the contents of the container and the familiar pink fabrics in it make me hold my breath.

“I miss her.”

She’s talking now.

I take a breath and try to concentrate on the words, the way she moves: anything to keep the darkness that is slowly crawling up my spine from consuming me.

She’s staring at me now, and I can see the tears shining in her eyes. I sit down next to her, take her hand, and attempt to play the part of the loving son. She lets me hold her hand, and, as her eyes close, I feel something akin to relief.

“Mom…”

All it takes is one word and she remembers who she is with. Her eyes pop open, and she’s back, taking her hand away and turning to the box. I get up before I can see her expression and walk to my room.

I pause at a hall window and I can see it in the street lights, just like I see it in my dreams, sitting on the driveway, an ominous monstrosity.

The truck.

I go to my room and lock the door, forgetting the backpack in the kitchen with my homework for the night. I fall onto the bed, ignoring my shoes, the fact that I am still in my school uniform, and that it is only 7 o’clock.

As I settle under my blankets, I can’t help but wishing that I won’t wake up.

The next day is Saturday, and I fake sleep until the early afternoon. By then my parents have gone off to do their errands and to make up the work they have missed. I wander aimlessly through the halls until I end up in front of her room.

I creep in, feeling like scum for intruding on her sanctuary. I don’t deserve to be here, to touch her things, to invade the only place good and pure like this. I think of leaving, but something inside me stops me.

I remember her tiny hand reaching up to mine, the trusting look on her face, and I have to bite back the bile rising in my throat.

The smell is uniquely her, baby powder and peanut butter sandwiches. The room is soft and pink, a preschooler’s paradise. Her teddy bear is missing, and in the back of my mind I am reminded where it is.

The thought is sobering, and the dreamlike state I am in disappears instantly. I grab helplessly for the door, and I am running, fast as I can, to my room and the keys in the second drawer.

Time seems to speed up and suddenly, I find myself in the truck, following a route that seems achingly familiar, and I am suddenly reminded of where I am going.

“Reckless driving”, said the police.

“Fatal one-car accident”, said the papers.

I am driving faster and faster and the memories come rushing back to me: the rain, the speed, the party I was rushing home for, and the screams from the passenger seat.

I see the grove of trees fast approaching, and I slow the truck, turning towards the massive oak, covered in flowered wreaths and crosses. As I tumble out of the passenger seat, I land hard on my ankle, but I ignore it and continue on.

As I glance around the clearing, I can see the debris still left over from the crash. My stomach drops when I spot branches with familiar red paint on them.

The paint triggers something inside of and, suddenly, I’m attacking the truck. My hands have developed minds of their own, and I can’t even see the truck through the tears in my eyes. I’m beating the windshield, the doors, anything I can reach, but the most my furious assault does is dent the veneer. There is no sound but the steady beating of my own hands against metal and the hoarseness of my screams echoing against the trees.

I stop when I feel a warm liquid running down my arm, dripping from my elbow onto the grass below me. As I glance down confusedly at my bloody broken hands, and the red paint clinging to the raw skin swiftly reminds me why I am here.

I turn on my heel and walk to the truck, picking the keys off the ground where I left them. The door creaks as I open it and I brush the fragments of windshield glass off the seat where it has fallen. I can still feel the blood streaming down my hands as I put the key in the ignition, but I don’t care.

It’s time to go home.