After a Crash: Worried, Angry, Scared

It was supposed to be a quiet Friday night at my best friend’s house, hanging out, listening to music and playing pool.

A little after 7, I was alone in my little yellow Subaru wagon, waiting in a busy Sepulveda intersection to turn left. Finally, the light changed from green to yellow and I waited until the cars in the opposing lanes began to slow and stop before I began just another safe, routine turn. Then suddenly--boom!

Things had happened so fast that I couldn’t even remember the screeching of brakes or any other details from right before the impact. But I do remember suddenly seeing a white car zoom past me, jolting my car backward. The engine abruptly died, although the mellow little song that I had been listening to continued to filter softly through the speakers. Dumbfounded, I turned to get a glimpse at the car that had hit me: a white Pontiac Trans Am. It continued down the street and my heart skipped a beat, thinking that I was going to be the victim of a hit-and-run, but calmed as the car pulled over to the curb.

Immediately, I considered it her fault for pummeling through the intersection and swore angrily. My pulse was racing as I stared at the left end of my hood, bent up in an odd shape. Looking through my window, I was shocked to find my front fender peeled back so far that it lay suspended next to my rearview mirror.

After I got out of my car, I first checked to see if the other driver was hurt, then called the police. Next, I called my friend’s house, asking her to call my mom for me and to get her parents to come out and help me. Not only was her house closer, but my mom was not feeling well and I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of her rushing out of the house, sick and frantic.

For most of the evening I was both worried and angry. Worried because, despite all of its little quirks and inabilities, I loved and depended on that car and knew that I couldn’t afford to fix it. Angry because I knew that no matter who was really at fault, I would be blamed because I was making a left turn. And even more angry that my car was totaled while the other woman’s car suffered only minor dents and scratches.

Looking out into the street, I could see bits of glass and metal that had been sprayed several yards from the car. I kept asking myself questions: How I was going to get to and from school? How was I going to get to all of my activities?

It wasn’t until my friend’s parents arrived that I noticed how close I had come to getting seriously hurt. As my friend’s father observed, my car had been damaged so badly that if I had been hit any harder, I probably would not have been able to walk away from the accident. That shook me up pretty badly.

For the rest of the evening, I was in no mood to talk much about what had happened. Luckily, my friend’s parents helped me out by exchanging information (such as insurance, license and phone numbers) with the woman who had hit me, as well as talking with one of the witnesses.

I later discovered that several of my friends had passed my wrecked car and one had even been on the other side of the intersection at the time, though he didn’t see the impact firsthand. But nobody had bothered to stop and help me. Although many of them said that if they knew that I had been the one in the accident, they would have stopped, I wondered why they or any other witnesses didn’t bother to stop anyway.

The days after the accident were horrible. I couldn’t concentrate in school. My body ached. I was constantly late because I had to depend on other people for rides. I had to speak with insurance agents and see a doctor. To make matters worse, because there were no witnesses who could say beyond a doubt that the woman who had hit me had run a red light, I was deemed at fault. By then I didn’t care anymore. I just wanted the incident to be over and buried in the past.

It’s been about five months since the accident, but my little Subaru is still rusting in the driveway. The insurance company only recently closed the case, which will allow my family to get rid of it. I hope it will be gone soon. I hate having to come home every day and see it, the protruding hood gaping at me and reminding me of what happened that night.