The Spectator

Let it be known that if one can see, one discerns by vision and memories of it. Sight is indeed a quintessential tool of humankind, letting one take in their surroundings, process these images, and guide them to make judgments and act accordingly. The things one must see mold one’s actions and experiences with a potent purpose—and what series of images can be more life-changing and educational than all that one sees through the windows and windshield of a car? One must face this—every time the car is started and pulled out of the driveway, the show begins.

The road stretches out before the driver’s eyes, and the lines and markings fly. Cars are seen on either side of their perspective. The traffic lights are green, then yellow, then red—the driver is ever-observant of this sequence, considerably far from the intersection—and they come to a stop. They are in the left lane, right next to the left-turn lane. The light will be red for a bit, they think, eyes nowhere but out the windshield, taking in the continuous sights. Everything seems normal but has the potential to fly out of hand whenever, wherever—and it does.

The driver can see how there are quite a few cars waiting in the opposite left-turn lane, especially the one in front, a Tesla Model X in a beautiful shade of red. What a nice-looking car, they think, for they had grown to love the color red.

So, they have established that there are both cars in that opposite lane and cars in this left-turn lane. The yellow arrow blinks above them—left-turn yield. The white Toyota Corolla to the left of the driver, eager to turn left, does so, unaware of the black Chevrolet Silverado—unseen behind the line of cars in their turn lane—under a green light and the right-of-way—barreling straight at them…

The poor driver, frozen in shock, stalls there as this new scene unfolds right before their eyes—the Chevy collides right into the side of the Toyota, seeming so unluckily choreographed, for they met at the exact time—the Chevy flips on its nose, and the Toyota’s right side is blown in, taking the full weight of the pickup as it rolls over to meet the road, and the sedan spins, both bleeding smoke. The driver is still frozen, feeling as if their head was filled with icy water, unaware of the honking from behind, but they can’t tear their eyes from the awful scene!

Yet they had to abandon the sight and drive on, but they swore they could see a red mess blotting out the windshields as if a bowl of gory mac-n-cheese had exploded in the microwave. And so they began to hate the color red.

And so the damnable sight, the sound, the emotions remained as the driver—the spectator—drove away. And, naturally, the spectator’s guilt began to creep in—I was there to see it, but there was nothing I could’ve done—now they are most certainly dead—and they ended up shedding wide-eyed tears, carrying the dark burden as they had to clock into work. Their own show would still go on despite how a few had just ended with a blood-red, velvety curtain call.

That driver, way later, clocked out with a numb mind and face—and she is I. Cursed with not one, but many scenes of vehicular disaster and death behind the windshield glass, kept in safety to be shown these things. There must be a reason for this, though I have struggled to sleep with the memories of what I’ve seen. Perhaps life is frightening me into obedience with these grim warnings, but also teaching me a valuable lesson about sight and safety when behind the wheel. Perhaps I had been given a chance that day to make a resolve to spread a message about the importance of awareness while driving and how the lack of it can spell doom.

Part of me still thinks about that day. Part of me hopes that not everyone in both cars has died. Perhaps the paramedics had arrived in time to try and save each and every victim before death took them. And this had only fed into my passion, fed the fire I have kept ever since I was a child—to be a doctor or emergency responder, to help people. Neither my financial situation—placing me in a job—nor the hurdles I must leap academically has ever diminished my resolve to reach my dream—the least you can do is help me so that I may help others.