Perception

Home. A place you feel safe, where worry can fall from your shoulders as you sink into the overstuffed cushions of your cheap couch, sipping hot tea as you watch the next episode of your favorite show on Netflix. Your family surrounds you, laughing at some joke your husband makes and you smile to yourself, thinking how good you have it. All that changed for me last year. I can no longer enjoy the soft embrace of a throw blanket on a cold winters day. I must sit straight and rigid, always facing the front window of our temporary apartment, or risk losing all sense of reality. My favorite shows no longer enrapture me. It’s hard to pay attention when I am constantly glancing out the window, sweat greasing my upper lip, waiting, just waiting for that roaring hunk of metal to come barreling – No. My therapist said the likelihood of something like this happening again is close to zero. But what does he know? I met a guy whose house has been hit six time. Six! An inaudible voice and a drawn out sigh can be heard. I’m sorry, Dr. Kant, I shouldn’t speak to you like that, I’ve been informed you will also be listening to this recording. So the incident. My daughter and I were home alone. We were sitting on our very own overstuffed couch, blanket pulled up to our chins as we watched Disney’s latest release. “Mommy, can we have hot chocolate?” my daughter asked, looking at me with big brown eyes and her plump bottom lip sticking out. What mom can say no to a look like that?

I rise from the couch, go into the kitchen and take down my two favorite mugs, the ones my husband bought me for Mother’s Day that year, and fill them with water. In the other room, Elsa begins to sing and I pop our mugs into the microwave, setting the timer for a minute thirty. At this point, I remember everything as if it happened in slow motion and the next minute and twenty eight seconds dragged into an eternity. I walked to the bar separating the kitchen and living room and leaned against it, pulling on my cardigan. To my right the TV flashed bright colors and blared Elsa’s long note. To my left was my daughter, snuggled under the blanket between the cushions. I’m not sure what caused me to look up, it may have been a glare from the windshield that caught my eye, but I noticed the little car right away, plain and unassuming, speeding down the hill towards our cul de sac. The sight of it chilled me to my bones. The headlights piercing through the snowfall scattered in all directions, bouncing menacingly as it hit the pothole the city kept meaning to fix. As I watched, the car drifted from one side of the road to the other and dread settled into my stomach like a lead weight. “Hey, sweetheart, do you want a cookie with your hot chocolate?” I asked, my eyes riveted to the window. “Yes, Mommy!” My daughter jumped for joy. “Hurry before the hot chocolate gets done.” Cold sweat trickled down my spine and I shivered. The car’s headlights bore into my soul, trapping my body in place. The metal machine slammed into the curb and the lights released me. I bent, frantically waving to my daughter, turning my mounting panic into a game to hurry her along. I snatched her around the middle and hugged her to my chest. I twirled on the spot, putting myself between my daughter and the horrendous glare of LED lights

that preceded the sharp sound of glass shattering and nails on a blackboard screeching of metal against metal. My back and my thighs stung where tiny shards of glass sliced through my clothes and embedded in my skin, I screamed, my daughter screamed. And everything went still. The smell of gas permeated my nose. Smoke and dust clogged my throat and I could almost taste the metallic twang of blood as it took its turn assaulting my senses. Ding! I jumped at the sound of the microwave and the flow of time returned to normal. My daughter started crying and I held her head against my shoulder. I turned slowly and was blinded by the solitary headlight. I shielded the light with my hand and goose bumps erupted across my arms as I realized the back wheels had caught in the overstuffed couch, stopping the cars forward momentum. Sirens whirred in the distance and the hot engine ticked while it cooled down. As I soothed my daughter, it occurred to me someone had to be behind the wheel. Cars don’t drive themselves into houses. I saw no movement, heard no sounds. I shuffled out of the bright light and squinted towards the drivers seat. A hand, dripping in blood, hung out the window, a finger still twitching. The windshield was a web of cracked glass, blood, and chunks of hair. I felt bile rising in my throat as the sirens closed in. Red and blue flashing lights lit up what was left of my living room walls, reflecting off the surviving family pictures. Then the place was swarming with men and women wearing dark uniforms. A man took me gently by the shoulders and lead me out into the cloudy afternoon, sitting my daughter and I on the bed of an ambulance. And that was it, it was over.

Home, where safety is only an illusion and sinking into that overstuffed couch becomes suffocating. Where watching Netflix could mean me or my daughter’s body smeared across the carpet as viscous gruel with only enough of us left to be scraped into an evidence bag. Home, my perception will never be the same, but I hope, one day, my daughter will remember the safety, the laughter, the love, it once brought. A sob is heard followed by a loud click and the recording goes silent.