Accidents
One evening, past midnight when a lot of drunk people roamed the streets, Brenda took a chance and rode the local bus. Only a few minutes away from her apartment, a man, probably drunk too, tripped and fell in the middle of the road. The bus driver didn't see the man, and drove right over him. But another passenger saw, and called out to the driver. The bus stopped, and the ambulance were called. Brenda, not wanting to wait, decided to walk the rest of the way home, so she got off the bus. It wasn't that cold, but it was snowing, which made her hair wet. She glanced back at the body in the middle of the road -- a man in a dark green coat and a red hat lay on his back in the middle of the road, his arms to his sides, and there was not much blood -- and she didn't want to remember what it had felt like when the bus drove over the man. But of course she remembered anyway.
Afterwards, even months later, friends asked her about the event, concerned, touching her shoulder, recommending therapy for her -- was she traumatized? did she dream about it? how often did she remember? -- and Brenda always answered, "It makes me sick to my stomach to remember. I won't ever forget, I don't think. I feel different, every day."
But the truth was, she was not traumatized, and really what bothered her most was how she had felt nothing at all. She hadn't felt any bones crunching. She hadn't heard the man cry out. When the bus rolled forward, the bump had felt like a large bag of a trash, or a thick bulky pillow. No noise, no nausea on her part, not even much confusion. She hadn't realized anything was wrong until the one passenger yelled, "Hey, stop! Oh my god! You just killed someone!" It had not felt like a body. It had not felt like death.
One evening, past midnight when a lot of drunk people roamed the streets, Brenda took a chance and rode the local bus. Only a few minutes away from her apartment, a man, probably drunk too, tripped and fell in the middle of the road. The bus driver didn't see the man, and drove right over him. But another passenger saw, and called out to the driver. The bus stopped, and the ambulance were called. Brenda, not wanting to wait, decided to walk the rest of the way home, so she got off the bus. It wasn't that cold, but it was snowing, which made her hair wet. She glanced back at the body in the middle of the road -- a man in a dark green coat and a red hat lay on his back in the middle of the road, his arms to his sides, and there was not much blood -- and she didn't want to remember what it had felt like when the bus drove over the man. But of course she remembered anyway.
Afterwards, even months later, friends asked her about the event, concerned, touching her shoulder, recommending therapy for her -- was she traumatized? did she dream about it? how often did she remember? -- and Brenda always answered, "It makes me sick to my stomach to remember. I won't ever forget, I don't think. I feel different, every day."
But the truth was, she was not traumatized, and really what bothered her most was how she had felt nothing at all. She hadn't felt any bones crunching. She hadn't heard the man cry out. When the bus rolled forward, the bump had felt like a large bag of a trash, or a thick bulky pillow. No noise, no nausea on her part, not even much confusion. She hadn't realized anything was wrong until the one passenger yelled, "Hey, stop! Oh my god! You just killed someone!" It had not felt like a body. It had not felt like death.