RED (OR GREEN?) - by Neya Krishnan

RED (OR GREEN?)

by Neya Krishnan

A boy from Angelville, Missouri, speeds his broken-down navy bicycle through an intersection on South Avenue when suddenly, his small torso is lifted into the sky and thrown to the ground, bloodied by gravity’s forceful throw.

Jerry had too much on his mind to notice the boy that day. The divorce had worn him down over the years. He was being a good father, a good ex, a good officer, and what did he get?

A child who listened religiously to his god-awful ex-wife?

Her restless mission to brainwash his loving girl?

A boss that threatened to take his badge?

Amelia was determined to make her ballet practice on time, but said practice was at nine in the evening. So he laced up his boots, started up the F-150, and wore a smile despite the obvious reluctance she showed as she climbed into the car, a permanent frown etched onto her face. Jerry tried to weave through the discomfort with small talk, but when the curt replies turned to silence, he revved his car’s sputtering engine and listened to the voice of his phone’s GPS.

When they reached the intersection at South Avenue, he knew he was just five minutes from the ballet studio. The night’s one saving grace. There was no need to screech the car to a halt, no need to burn asphalt against rubber tires, because in the middle of that deep navy night, the traffic light glowed emerald. GO.

He was certain. The light was green. So Jerry drove on— there was no boy on a broken-down bike when he made the choice, certainly not, not until the moment when there was a boy on a bike, speeding through the empty lane, not until the moment he was helpless to stop. A body was sent up and pulled down in one swift motion, entangled with the metal of a bike.

It wasn’t Jerry’s fault, though. It could have happened to anyone.

The bike had failed. The boy had fallen.

The light was green. The crosswalk sign had turned from white man to red hand. The boy was nowhere in sight. The boy was nowhere in sight.

A young boy from Angelville, Missouri, drives a shiny, new bicycle through the intersection on South Avenue when suddenly, his small torso is lifted into the sky and pressed down to the ground by the forceful punch of a Ford F-150.

Amelia didn’t even want to drive with her father that day. She loved her dad completely, but she was scared of him, too. He always smelled funny, and he said funny things as well. Sometimes he’d ask her for money— she thought that was funny because she was only nine— what kind of money did he think she had?

Her dad also always talked bad about her mom, which hurt Amelia a lot— but mom always talked bad about dad, so she convinced herself it was normal.

The car ride began with a question soaked in spite, “How’s your mom? Still forgetting to take you to school, Amelia? You can tell me, you know? I can help you,” her dad began.

Amelia hated silence, but even more so, she hated violence; those words were weapons, so she kept quiet. Eventually, her dad understood, and silence drowned the car.

Maybe it was because it was so quiet that she could notice every murmur, every motion, every bottle of whiskey and vodka inside the four doors. Every pastel house, closed shop, and streetlight outside its windows. Maybe, because her eyes were pressed up against the glass, she noticed a young boy on a bicycle coming down the street at South Avenue. She knew the bike was new because it shined; she spotted him early on because he shined.

As he got closer, she wondered why her father wasn’t stopping the car. The light was red. He should have stopped by then. The crosswalk had turned from a red hand to a walking man.

The light was red. “STOP! Dad, stop!” Amelia yelled.

The boy came closer. And then, suddenly, he was pushed up and pulled down in one swift motion, his body melting into his glittery bike. It happened so fast, yet excruciatingly slow. Parts of the bikeand the boy’s backpack littered the street. His tiny body wouldn’t move.

The boy seeped red. Amelia screamed. She didn’t stop.

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