The Accident

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by Accidentally Philly…

There was blood everywhere, all over the floor, all over the door, all over the couch. But where was it all coming from? Where was all the blood coming from? Oh yeah, the accident. Man, was her husband going to be pissed.

Next thing she knew, he came walking through the front door. She was right; he was pissed.

“What the F happened to the car?” he said, although he didn’t say F, he said FUCK, all in capital letters.

“I don’t know,” she said, “I was driving, and there were bright lights coming at me, and that’s the last thing I remember.”

“Were you driving on the wrong side of the road?” he said.

“Why would I be driving on the wrong side of the road?” she said.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Why would you?”

“Why do you always assume everything’s my fault?” she said.

“Isn’t it?” he said.

She started crying.

“You know the car’s totaled?”

Her tears had no effect on him whatsoever.

“The whole passenger side is practically gone,” he said. “I have no idea how much this is going to cost me.

“My insurance rates are going to go through the roof,” he said, and with that he left through the back door, slamming it on his way out.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

Next thing she knew, the front door opened again and in walked her next door neighbor, Maureen. “My God,” said Maureen, sitting on the couch next to her “What on Earth happened?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “There were headlights coming at me. I swerved. That’s the last thing I remember.”

“Are you okay?” said Maureen. “There’s blood everywhere.” Maureen then proceeded to look her over from head to toe, only, only she couldn’t find the source of the blood anywhere. Nothing at all. The blood wasn’t coming from her.

Just then, Maureen’s husband, Bob, walked through the front door. He stopped for a moment, soaking it all in, then motioned for Maureen to come over next to him.

“There’s blood everywhere,” whispered Maureen, “but I don’t find any sign of injury.”

“That’s because it’s not her blood,” whispered Bob.

“Then who?” said Maureen. “Who’s blood is it?”

“His.”

Maureen gasped. “You mean?”

“John’s.”

“But—”

“He’s still in the car.”

“We have to call 911” said Maureen. “We have to get help.”

Bob grabbed hold of his wife. “He’s been decapitated,” he said.

“Oh my God,” said Maureen, and then they both turned towards their neighbor, who was mumbling something through the tears.

“John is so angry with me,” she said. “He stormed out the back door. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

Then, she looked up at her neighbors. “How is the car?” she said. “Is it fixable? Can we fix it?”

It was not fixable. Nothing was fixable. Not anymore.

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