Friday, December 1
Washington, D.C.
Peter Gregory knew the exact moment that changed his life forever.
The incident had been seared into his mind and had blackened his soul. The memory of that night—almost twenty years ago—constantly played in his mind. There was no way to control it. Anything could trigger it. A barista handing him coffee instead of the latte he’d ordered. A driver cutting him off in traffic. A homeless person on the sidewalk. All it took was a flash of anger, and his mind started skidding off the rails.
The horrific images had been stamped on his brain. They came full force in bright technicolor, like starting a movie at the action scene. Only in slow motion. Every detail highlighted. It played out. When it finished, it began all over again.
That incident, twenty years ago, it followed him. Haunted him. Drove him to madness. Made him the man he was today.
Standing here on the dark street corner, Gregory watched the flashing red and blue lights and listened to the high-pitched sirens.
He did enjoy the chaos. He could practically feel the vibration through the concrete. His pulse raced. Palms and forehead were sweaty, despite the cold. Over the years, he became fascinated by why some people ran away from danger while others ran toward it.
His father had run toward it. But his mother? She couldn’t drive away fast enough.
Now, watching the urgency of the first responders had almost a soothing effect on him. It calmed the rattle in his brain. It paused the images. Maybe he could see something more horrific to replace them. And if he didn’t find anything, perhaps he could create it all on his own.
In the meantime, he soaked in the chaos like big gulps of fresh, cold air. He reveled in the satisfaction that he’d created it. He brought all of first responders, law enforcement officers and bystanders...they were all here because of him.
He did that.
But even with this brand new turmoil, the memory raised its ugly head.
It had been dark that night, the sky ink-black with thousands of tiny star pricks. The long drive home seemed endless, especially in the backseat. Back then, he was prone to motion sickness, and the dark only made it worse.
If he concentrated, he could still hear the words of his parents’ argument. Most of the time, his mind played it back in a low monotone, their voices merging. The sound droned on and on. It was part of the movie he couldn’t mute.
Noise brought his attention back to the present. Cops were pushing him and the others back, trying to keep people out of the way as an ambulance wailed through. Gregory leaned against the brick building, girding himself for the nausea, but it was too late.
Snow fell on the streets of D.C., but Gregory could smell the musty Florida air coming through the family car’s air vents. He was a boy again, sliding down farther into the backseat, ignoring the potato chip crumbs and the damp spot from where he’d spilled his soda. His mom would be mad about the new stain tomorrow. But that night, she was mad at his father.
Why didn’t they have enough money? And why didn’t his father care?
As long as she was angry with his father, nothing else mattered.
Gregory remembered closing his eyes, but only pretending to sleep. They hadn’t paid attention to him or his brother for the last hour. And that was a good thing.
Darkness engulfed the vehicle. There were no other cars on the old country road. Trees lined both sides, so it looked like they were driving through a tunnel. Gregory squinted enough to see the blue dashboard lights. The inside of the car glowed like a spaceship.
Back then, his imagination could get him through almost anything. He remembered turning their rundown car into a sleek spaceship being propelled through the star-studded sky. He imagined the bumps in the road were from stray meteors instead of plain old potholes. His dad’s face was washed in blue from the dashboard light, and the scowl made him look more like a comic book villain. Certainly not the captain of a spaceship.
Still squinting, Gregory stole a glance at the curled figure pressed against the other door, feet pulled up, arms crossed and hugging his body. Pretty soon he’d start crying. His brother was a crybaby. It didn’t take much, but he especially hated the yelling. Maybe he thought they were mad at him. He was a little kid. He really didn’t know better.
A wider squint and he could see the quivering lip in the blue glow. The outburst was on its way. And the worst part? It would only make their parents angrier. The subject of this argument would be forgotten. The new battle would be which of them made their son cry. His mother’s precious golden-haired boy.
He slumped down farther but not so low his eyes couldn’t see the passing landscape. What would happen if he opened the car door and slid out? It would probably hurt. But maybe just in the beginning like when he fell off his bicycle.
Flew off his bike was more like it.
The scraped knees and elbows healed though he still had some awesome scars. Back then, his mom was just relieved he hadn’t knocked out any teeth, but she was pissed that the bike’s front wheel got bent.
“We’re not buying you anymore new bikes or toys or computers,” she told him when she realized his injuries wouldn’t require a trip to the emergency room. Never mind that he was still bleeding.
“All you know how to do is break things.”
That last part stung him more than his raw knee with gravel embedded in the bloody wound. How many times could she say hurtful things and still expect him to not be crushed under the weight of those words?
That’s when he started thinking about opening the car door. What would she say when he rolled out and actually broke an arm or a leg? He bet she’d be sorry for being so mean to him then.
More sirens screamed on the street in front of him, but he could feel his ten-year-old fingers searching the door latch. Could he open it then tuck and tumble like he’d seen in the movies?
And what if he did break his arm?
The thought still made him smile, twenty years later.
How guilty would his parents feel? Or would they only be angrier because then they would need to take him to the ER? And it would cost a fortune and they were already arguing about money. Still, he imagined white bone sticking out of his skin. Would it get their attention? Could he actually steal a couple days of attention away from precious Mickey?
His mother would feel bad. Wouldn’t she?
Or would she say, “See, you’re always breaking things and making a mess.”
But he didn’t open the door that night. The boy-coward scrunched down again. His imaginary escape defeated. A quick glance at his brother told him their parents’ argument had died down for now. No more quivering lip. Mickey’s eyes were closed, and he looked like he was sleeping. He envied his brother’s ability to soar from tears to sleep. The words hadn’t left bruises on him yet.
Why couldn’t he do that?
In his mind, he imagined his ten-year-old self dressed in an armor of steel like a superhero. Words would ricochet off the metal like bullets. The sparks igniting everything around him, but none of it affected him. None of it touched him. Not a single scratch. He’d be invincible with powers no one could stop. And he’d decide who to crush and who to save.
The car swerved suddenly, and he still felt that unexpected motion. His father had driven around a curve and on-coming headlights blinded them through their windshield. A pickup was parked on the side of the road.
“Someone’s stalled,” his father said and slowed then braked. He pulled onto the right side of the road, tires bumping off the edge and skidding in the grass and clay.
That was where the horror movie began. It happened so quickly, yet twenty years later it always played out in nerve-wrecking slow motion.
His father opened his car door, but left the engine running.
“They probably ran out of gas,” he said, getting out of the car and leaving the door open.
In some versions, his mother protested.
Sometimes he hears her scream.
There are screams, but he’s never sure if they’d come from Mickey or his mother. But he was certain that when the man alongside the pickup started hitting his father, Gregory couldn’t believe it was real.
It had to be a game.
Or maybe the dark was playing with his eyes.
Later, his mother told the police officers that his father waved and yelled for her to go. They all were in danger. His father wanted them to run. Go get help.
But Gregory didn’t remember any of that.
He didn’t hear his father yell to her. How did she know? How could she be so certain?
But one thing he remembered clearly—remembered it the same every time since—was the last view of his father through the back window. Gregory could never forget that look on his father’s face.
Surprise? Pain? Shock? All of that. But mostly, what Gregory saw was disbelief. His father looked like he couldn’t believe they were leaving him behind.
A police whistle startled him back to the present. Back to the cold, dark street. By-standers had gathered. Others who looked like him. Gawkers of the night. The police told them they needed to step back, again. Step away from the flashing lights.
One of them looked directly at Gregory, never once suspecting he was the reason they were here. He was the reason for this chaos, bringing them out in the middle of a frosty, dark night.
And he was still capable of breaking things.