When I first told select friends and family about my blog project, many asked if I intended to write about The Accident. My initial response was "Of course not. This blog is about my Twenties and that whole thing happened when I was younger." Truth be told, I spent many, many years identified as The Girl The Accident Happened To. It is a badge I don't always feel honored wearing. The beauty of this project though, is that it is ever evolving. It forces me to face certain things that I choose to not always address with myself. I have written about the neglect I often felt as a child, and how that has shaped the Twenty-something I am today. So it only makes sense that I now face the experience that I am finding has much more to do with my current self than maybe any other.
During the summer of 1993, I was ten years old and the city was experiencing a wave of heat and gang-related crime. It would later be famously dubbed "The Summer of Violence." Gangs had long been a factor in the city but for the most part, stayed underground, or at least out of the attention of the media. That particular summer though, the street wars became more brazen and more violent, often occurring in broad daylight. News stories abounded with innocent bystanders losing their lives. Many small children, even infants, were killed or injured by the flying of stray bullets. The gangs also seemed to be targeting outside of their normal beefs. Even the Mayor's house had been subjected to a drive-by shooting.
Things were peaceful where Dad raised me and Sister, in our little hillside town at the base of a mountain range, thirty minutes from the city. Mom however, did live in the city when we were young. On our weekends to visit her, the nights were often riddled with the sound of gunfire and sirens. Rather than playing outside in the neighborhood after dinner, we would be locked down in the living room, forced to watch the stories of bloodshed on the evening news. At only six or seven years of age, Sister may have been too young to understand what was going on in the world around us. I on the other hand, was terrified. I would insist on sleeping in the hallway, away from the bedroom that faced the road. My heart would race at the sight of a car driving just a little too slowly down our street. Loud noises made me jump. Crime movies and TV shows kept me awake. I was actually scared of being shot. This fearful obsession of violence, specifically gun violence, plagued my mind for many years into my adolescence.
In the fall of 1999, I was sixteen years old, a Junior in high school, and an all-star volleyball player. I had an after school job at a pizza joint. Having my drivers license, I was able to drive myself out the canyon where we lived, to spend time with friends. I experimented with smoking weed, drinking beer, and had boyfriends. I was living the average and privileged life, not unlike many upper-middle class American teens. On the morning of Saturday, September 25th, I woke up in a foul mood. I was grumpy and jealous because my boyfriend was going to homecoming with his old girlfriend at her high school. I decided to distract myself and called my best friend Blue Eyes to see what she was up to for the day. Her family was spending the day moving. I asked Dad for the keys to his truck and headed down the canyon to spend time with them and lend a hand.
I loved (and still do love) Blue Eyes and her parents. Their family was somewhat of a surrogate for me growing up. They were hard working, honest people who valued family and integrity. They reminded me of my own. Their house was always warm and welcoming and I always felt at home with them. Blue Eyes' boyfriend (let us call him DumbFuck), was helping as well. Personally, I couldn't really stand him. I thought he was a poser and tried too hard to be cool. I found him abrasive and insulting. But he was my best friend's boyfriend, she loved him, and he was strong enough to assist with the moving of furniture so I played nice.
We had finally made our last trip hauling the remaining items into the new house so DumbFuck and I began to help Blue Eyes set up her bedroom as her parents took to unpacking the kitchen. Blue Eyes put on some music and rolled a big joint, exclaiming "I can't wait until we're done so we can smoke this and relax." As Stevie Ray Vaughan's "Pride and Joy" belted from the stereo, Blue Eyes began to hang posters of our favorite metal band while I hung curtains. DumbFuck, being the lazy ass he was, lounged near the head of the bed, up by the pillows, fidgeting with something. I was exhausted from the move so I took the curtain rod off the wall in front of me and sat down at the foot of the bed about four feet in front of him.
I was weaving the curtain rod into the material when it suddenly felt like we were in the middle of an earthquake. The room was shaking and my hearing was muffled. I saw Blue Eyes run out of the room in front of me. She appeared to be screaming but I couldn't hear any sound coming from her mouth. Suddenly, Blue Eyes' mother was sitting next to me at the foot of the bed, with her arms around me. I could feel the vibrations of her voice coming through her body, but it took several moments for me to actually make out her words. She kept whispering "Don't move. Just be still. It's okay." I couldn't understand why the hell she was comforting me and not her own daughter in the middle of an earthquake. It didn't make sense and I was confused. Just then, Blue Eyes' Father walked into the room behind us and said "They are on their way but need to know which gun it was."
Suddenly, a sense of extreme awareness electrified through my body. I felt the ooze of warm and thick liquid running down my neck, my back, and my arm. I had been shot, at point blank range, in the back of my head. Could it be that my obsessive childhood fear had somehow premonition-ed this?
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