The Crash

The car was devastated, and almost unrecognisable in its new, crumpled form.  The street light suffered less damage; a little dented, it was now bent forwards, leaning precariously over what had been the bonnet of the car. The bulb flickered intermittently, and, like a spot light it cast long, strobe-like shadows of the twisted metal form across the tarmac.

So simply it had happened, they were not going fast and he assured himself of this. But then he knew that perhaps they had been going fast. Far too fast in fact, but surely, surely not dangerously fast. Darkness… his lights had  been on, hadn’t they?  He saw only the blur of tarmacked surface underneath him as they cruised silently… And then there was light, and the streetlamp on the turning straight ahead of him and all the time it rushed towards them closer and closer as he tried -too late- to turn. Beth screamed, screamed along with the screech of the tyres, she turned her clean, beautiful face away from him. The streetlamp smashed through the bonnet, the windscreen, like a rock to a wave, showering them in glass.

The street lights were positioned far apart from one another, so that around the crash was a ring of semi darkness. He was not sure for how long they had sat there, and he was not sure if it was voluntarily or because he had no choice that he did not move. In his sweaty palms he still gripped the steering wheel tightly.  The impact had driven the front of the car inwards, and now the dashboard and steering wheel where only inches away from their bodies.  Inside, the only light came from the streetlamp, and they were mostly in shadow, with some of the icons of the dashboard still uselessly alive in the darkness. He continued to sit, his chest rising and falling in time with his own irregular breathing, overlaying the thumping bass line of the tiny radio that seemed ironically untarnished by the destruction around it.

Before, just before, he and Beth had sat in the little car not speaking; their evening together ruined after the wrong choice of word and interpretation of body language left the other feeling unwanted and irritated. They sat in silence, not having argued but quietly and silently accusing the other, yet each hoping that the other would apologise or touch them in such a way that they could know everything’s alright. The radio played late night trance anthems, the pulsing beats filling the silence between them with a great, hypnotic awkwardness. Paul’s eyes strayed to watch Beth’s hand on the volume wheel; she turned it up a fraction louder; blocked him out.

As he now sat there now it seemed odd to Paul that the same song was still playing that had been playing when they had crashed, he felt as though he had been sitting here for hours, that the impact had passed in a moment and now he was reflecting on a vivid memory of something very distant. The music continued. The heavy, crescendo of the chorus felt somewhat out of place with the almost anticlimactic silence of the night air that surrounded them. He realized it was, perhaps, only a couple of seconds that had passed since the crash. And although the shock was now overwhelming him completely, making him shake and turning him white, he suddenly released a deep breath of relief and was overwhelmed with a fantastic wave of joy, of simply being alive.

Immediately he tried to open his door, but the bonnet had been driven upwards in such a way that he could not reach it.

“Beth? Are you ok? Try opening the door on your side, we have to get out. My side is stuck.”

She didn’t respond, and her head was leant backwards in the darkness and to one side, not facing Paul. He could only see her hands resting on her thigh, illuminated in a thin strip of light by the flickering streetlamp.

“Beth?” he said again. “Are you ok?” He realised the shock was overwhelming her, even more than it was to him, she needed a second to calm herself. He tried to comfort her just by speaking, letting her know that they were safe, that the car was destroyed but it hadn’t been as bad as it felt, that they were ok, thank God.  He laughed, and when she still didn’t respond his light hearted tone faltered;

“Beth? What’s up? Are you hurt?”

She didn’t answer him, and he felt the breath within him catch at the bottom of his throat for a second as he saw that her chest was motionless.  The head which he thought was simply turned, was lifeless like a dummy, her neck twisted violently away from him. Quickly he struggled out of his seatbelt and touched her, his hand on her hands stroking her anxiously.

“Beth? Beth” he was close to her, his face up to her, trying to take her in, but the claustrophobia of the seat and the tiny confined space grew too much for him and the more he fumbled and tried to wake her up the more motionless and silent she appeared. He twisted and breathed heavily and began to shout and swear. Turning her face towards him he lightly slapped her cheek and kissed her eyelids, his lips trembling, trying to shake her to some form of fragile life. Finally he stopped and just held her head still in his hands, trying to hold it upright in front of him, speaking only to himself in soft, wretched whisper.

He looked her face, thin scratches from the broken glass lining it beautifully; they complemented her short, slim, scarlet dress and the matching heels that she had bought especially for the party, that she had so excitedly tried on for him in her bedroom.

Suddenly the passenger seat airbag burst to life, making him jump. It quickly inflated, forcing the two of them apart, filling the tiny space almost completely. He let go of her head and watched it flop forwards onto the skin of the airbag.

“Fucking shit! Shit fucking car!” he screamed, now slamming his hands madly against the steering wheel, against the dashboard, the doors and the seat.

Exhausted, he sunk back into his seat. Outside the car the cool night hair lay gently upon the simmering wreck. Unaware that he was doing it, he reached for his phone and slowly dialled 999. He turned off the pulsing radio and was greeted only by the monotonous ringing on the on the other end of the line. He reported the incident and told them where they were, that they had crashed, and that there was a dead girl and no, he wasn’t hurt, but she was and they need to send someone quickly please to come and look at her because he thinks she needs some help.

He hung up and sat with his eyes open, looking at her, replaying the scene over and over in his head, over and over and over until the blue sirens of the ambulance woke him from the sleepless trance.

Death By Scrabble

It’s a hot day and I hate my wife.

We’re playing Scrabble. That’s how bad it is. I’m 42 years old, it’s a blistering hot Sunday afternoon and all I can think of to do with my life is to play Scrabble.

I should be out, doing exercise, spending money, meeting people. I don’t think I’ve spoken to anyone except my wife since Thursday morning. On Thursday morning I spoke to the milkman.

My letters are crap.

I play, appropriately, BEGIN. With the N on the little pink star. Twenty-two points.

I watch my wife’s smug expression as she rearranges her letters. Clack, clack, clack. I hate her. If she wasn’t around, I’d be doing something interesting right now. I’d be climbing Mount Kilimanjaro. I’d be starring in the latest Hollywood blockbuster. I’d be sailing the Vendee Globe on a 60-foot clipper called the New Horizons – I don’t know, but I’d be doing something.

She plays JINXED, with the J on a double-letter score. 30 points. She’s beating me already. Maybe I should kill her.

If only I had a D, then I could play MURDER. That would be a sign. That would be permission.

I start chewing on my U. It’s a bad habit, I know. All the letters are frayed. I play WARMER for 22 points, mainly so I can keep chewing on my U.

As I’m picking new letters from the bag, I find myself thinking – the letters will tell me what to do. If they spell out KILL, or STAB, or her name, or anything, I’ll do it right now. I’ll finish her off.

My rack spells MIHZPA. Plus the U in my mouth. Damn.

The heat of the sun is pushing at me through the window. I can hear buzzing insects outside. I hope they’re not bees. My cousin Harold swallowed a bee when he was nine, his throat swelled up and he died. I hope that if they are bees, they fly into my wife’s throat.

She plays SWEATIER, using all her letters. 24 points plus a 50 point bonus. If it wasn’t too hot to move I would strangle her right now.

I am getting sweatier. It needs to rain, to clear the air. As soon as that thought crosses my mind, I find a good word. HUMID on a double-word score, using the D of JINXED. The U makes a little splash of saliva when I put it down. Another 22 points. I hope she has lousy letters.

She tells me she has lousy letters. For some reason, I hate her more.

She plays FAN, with the F on a double-letter, and gets up to fill the kettle and turn on the air conditioning.

It’s the hottest day for ten years and my wife is turning on the kettle. This is why I hate my wife. I play ZAPS, with the Z doubled, and she gets a static shock off the air conditioning unit. I find this remarkably satisfying.

She sits back down with a heavy sigh and starts fiddling with her letters again. Clack clack. Clack clack. I feel a terrible rage build up inside me. Some inner poison slowly spreading through my limbs, and when it gets to my fingertips I am going to jump out of my chair, spilling the Scrabble tiles over the floor, and I am going to start hitting her again and again and again.

The rage gets to my fingertips and passes. My heart is beating. I’m sweating. I think my face actually twitches. Then I sigh, deeply, and sit back into my chair. The kettle starts whistling. As the whistle builds it makes me feel hotter.

She plays READY on a double-word for 18 points, then goes to pour herself a cup of tea. No I do not want one.

I steal a blank tile from the letter bag when she’s not looking, and throw back a V from my rack. She gives me a suspicious look. She sits back down with her cup of tea, making a cup-ring on the table, as I play an 8-letter word: CHEATING, using the A of READY. 64 points, including the 50-point bonus, which means I’m beating her now.

She asks me if I cheated.

I really, really hate her.

She plays IGNORE on the triple-word for 21 points. The score is 153 to her, 155 to me.

The steam rising from her cup of tea makes me feel hotter. I try to make murderous words with the letters on my rack, but the best I can do is SLEEP.

My wife sleeps all the time. She slept through an argument our next-door neighbours had that resulted in a broken door, a smashed TV and a Teletubby Lala doll with all the stuffing coming out. And then she bitched at me for being moody the next day from lack of sleep.

If only there was some way for me to get rid of her.

I spot a chance to use all my letters. EXPLODES, using the X of JINXED. 72 points. That’ll show her.

As I put the last letter down, there is a deafening bang and the air conditioning unit fails.

My heart is racing, but not from the shock of the bang. I don’t believe it – but it can’t be a coincidence. The letters made it happen. I played the word EXPLODES, and it happened – the air conditioning unit exploded. And before, I played the word CHEATING when I cheated. And ZAP when my wife got the electric shock. The words are coming true. The letters are choosing their future. The whole game is – JINXED.

My wife plays SIGN, with the N on a triple-letter, for 10 points.

I have to test this.

I have to play something and see if it happens. Something unlikely, to prove that the letters are making it happen. My rack is ABQYFWE. That doesn’t leave me with a lot of options. I start frantically chewing on the B.

I play FLY, using the L of EXPLODES. I sit back in my chair and close my eyes, waiting for the sensation of rising up from my chair. Waiting to fly.

Stupid. I open my eyes, and there’s a fly. An insect, buzzing around above the Scrabble board, surfing the thermals from the tepid cup of tea. That proves nothing. The fly could have been there anyway.

I need to play something unambiguous. Something that cannot be misinterpreted. Something absolute and final. Something terminal. Something murderous.

My wife plays CAUTION, using a blank tile for the N. 18 points.

My rack is AQWEUK, plus the B in my mouth. I am awed by the power of the letters, and frustrated that I cannot wield it. Maybe I should cheat again, and pick out the letters I need to spell SLASH or SLAY.

Then it hits me. The perfect word. A powerful, dangerous, terrible word.

I play QUAKE for 19 points.

I wonder if the strength of the quake will be proportionate to how many points it scored. I can feel the trembling energy of potential in my veins. I am commanding fate. I am manipulating destiny.

My wife plays DEATH for 34 points, just as the room starts to shake.

I gasp with surprise and vindication – and the B that I was chewing on gets lodged in my throat. I try to cough. My face goes red, then blue. My throat swells. I draw blood clawing at my neck. The earthquake builds to a climax.

I fall to the floor. My wife just sits there, watching.

Teenage Panic.

Look at any forum or question site frequented by sexually active teenagers, and you’ll see the same theme come up over and over:

 “I had sex. I’m terrified I’m pregnant and have every STD ever.”

“A guy fingered me.  I’m terrified I’m pregnant and have every STD ever.”

“I touched a girl’s breasts and then touched my penis. I’m terrified she’s pregnant and we both have every STD ever.”

 I’m paraphrasing a little sardonically, but I remember being there. The first time I touched a boy’s penis, he demanded I wash my hands immediately, because maybe they had some sperm on them and maybe I would masturbate and then I would get pregnant for sure. And when I started having intercourse, although we always used condoms, I was absolutely convinced I was pregnant and infected.  It got to the point where I would have stomach rumblings and think that I was feeling a baby kicking.

Despite (or because of) this belief, I never took any tests.  I was so scared of seeing a positive result, I couldn’t bear to.  I’m damn lucky that I was worried over nothing, because it was more than nine months before I screwed up the courage to actually use a pregnancy test, and years before I went to a clinic for an STI test.

 I was a pretty savvy teenager, intellectually.  My school sex ed wasn’t much, but I’d been through every page of Scarleteen and the sex chapter of every “you and your health” book I could get my hands on.  I’d read up on the correct methods for every kind of contraception and the symptoms of every infection.  My problem wasn’t lack of education, not exactly.  My problem was an all-consuming terror of punishment.  I’d been able to unlearn misconceptions about the biological details, but I hadn’t unlearned the idea that having sex was a very wrong and forbidden act.

The morning after I had sex for the first time, I woke up with a crushing feeling that I’d done something evil and I was going to be caught and punished.  The next time I saw my mum, I was terrified.  I thought she was going to catch some nuance in my speech or gestures and go “Wait a second… you’re acting like a sex-haver!  You are in so much trouble.”  This didn’t happen, but the feeling of guilty terror lingered.

 And I think it was that guilty terror that led me to my paranoia.  I was so convinced that I had been bad and would be punished, I believed biology itself would punish me.  It didn’t help that I’d grown up hearing about how pregnancy and STIs were “consequences” for sex.  Health class, parents, teachers, media, and peers had always talked about these things not as risks that adults have to manage, but as dire fates (or worse, humiliatingly comical fates) for sluts.  At age 15, I took a certain toxic-girl-hate pride in being Responsible and Pure.  At age 16, I’d had a penis inside me.

 This nasty mess of emotions did nothing to stop me from having sex, of course.  There was a whole other mess of emotions telling me that you’re undesirable and you’re not growing up and you’re not in a real relationship if you don’t have sex, and those won out in the end.  (Plus I was really horny.)  And by “in the end,” I mean “within two hours”–I had sex almost immediately the first time I found out a guy wanted to have sex with me.  So much for convincing kids to wait.  All I was convinced to do was have sex, but feel absolutely terrible about it.

 But you can’t say there was no deterrent effect, because I was powerfully deterred from seeking any kind of medical advice or testing. That would be humiliating beyond measure, I was convinced.  It wouldn’t feel like asking for help; it would feel like turning myself in.  Saying “I need an STD test” felt to me like saying “I’m a disobedient slut who probably got what she deserves,” and I couldn’t face that shame. I’d rather just take my chances. Even though I was terrified of my chances.

 

 God, we fuck up teenagers’ heads.  We tell them that biological conditions are moral punishments and then we get all shocked when they don’t practice rational risk management of biological conditions.  We teach them “sex is super desirable and all the cool kids do it, and it’s hideously shameful and will destroy your life” and we wonder why they act an eensy bit neurotic about it.  If you tried to design a system for making sexually active kids confused and unsafe, you couldn’t do much better than the American/British media and school system.

And for once, the answer is relatively simple.  Just talk about sex like it’s a part of life.  Some people have sex and some people don’t, because people are different. STIs aren’t bad because they’re Dirty Crotch Rot; they’re bad because they’re contagious illnesses like strep throat or whooping cough, and you can ask a doctor to check for and treat them just like you would with strep throat.  Unwanted pregnancy isn’t a scarlet A; it’s a mostly-preventable accident that sometimes occurs when people are going about their normal business of having sex. You can ask the school counselor about a variety of topics, including career planning, problems at home, questions about sex, or conflicts with teachers.

If we could just get the goddamn stick out of our collective ass and accept that sex is a human activity and teenagers are humans, maybe there wouldn’t be quite so many plaintive “I don’t understand my body and I’m confused and scared and I don’t know anyone I can ask in person” messages flying out into the world.