Confession, Nachiket Prakash
CRASH
Clark heard the car six seconds before it popped into view. The noise was dull. Just a low thud like a garbage truck. But that was the way it was: duller on the inside, and always felt more than heard.
The hood crumpled first. Then went the windows in a kaleidoscopic array of showered glass. The shards settled neatly over the concrete and when the first responders came, their footsteps would crackle and pop as if on snow.
Next, went the airbags. They blew like the bubblegum teens liked to pop.
The shouts came shortly after. Distinct, barely audible sounds, coming into focus. Fuck, fuck…
“FUCK!” the boy shouted, his Adam’s apple bobbing in time. The mangled sight, too garish to swallow.
“FUCK!” he shouted again, louder this time.
Two girls emerged from the back seat of his car. In the distance, they looked like tiny toy soldiers, and if they were shaken, Clark could not tell.
“I wasn’t speeding!” the boy shouted at a passing sedan. “The guy behind me, he—”
He pointed, but to little effect. It was a politician’s performance, at best.
Two girls emerged from the back seat of his car. In the distance, they looked like tiny toy soldiers, and if they were shaken, Clark could not tell.
Clark dialed 911, recalling the last time he had. It was night, far different from this sunny afternoon. He remembered the head. The dribble. The obituary.
All of it.
The struck driver cleared the intersection, her bumper trailing behind like a glittery tail. Clark’s mom stepped out of the car to meet her.
The boy now stood at the center of the rubble, hands atop his head like a runner after a marathon. From where Clark stood, it was the Adam’s apple he noticed most. Swollen with anguish, the boy stared down at his BMW.
The woman shook uncontrollably in the arms of Clark’s mother. Clark couldn’t make out her face, but he didn’t need to.
The boy was on his phone now, ambling through the street like a midnight reveler.
“Mom, I’m telling you. Just let me explain!”
Clark climbed back into the car as the sound of sirens approached.
“And not once,” Clark’s mom would say many minutes later, her jaw hanging in disbelief so that she resembled some sort of deep sea creature, “did he come to check on her.”
ANTHONY KARAMBELAS
Anthony Karambelas is a recent graduate of Cal State LA, where he edited Statement Magazine and wrote for the campus newspaper. His passion lies in the written word, running the gamut from the claustrophobically academic to the deliriously creative. He is a recent Pepperdine DC Policy Scholar and Berlin Capital Program Fulbrighter. At heart, he is still very much a child. Find him on LinkedIn.
For more of Nachiket Prakash’s visual art visit this portfolio.