I kept trying to tell myself that it was nothing, but a small part of me couldn’t let go. There was one little dagger still left in my brain that encouraged a particular set of thoughts in which I couldn’t quite escape from. And even after many daysweeksmonths passed, that vision and those thoughts tarried to torture me. It was funny that what set me off was a car. A car parked out front of a house. A rolling metal box with windows and wheels and wipers and potential passengers placed precisely in my environment. A stupid ordinary fucking white Cadillac in front of a house that reminded me of everything; and, like the barbed hook in a trout’s mouth, was nearly impossible to rid myself of.
The first time I saw it: I disregarded it.
The second time I saw it: I found it odd.
The third time: it seemed like more than a coincidence.
But what was it exactly?
The last time I saw that white car it was drenched in blood and all I could hear were screeching tires, gunshots, and the perpetual ringing of alarms. Harsh voices at dangerous volumes were prevalent. All of those feelings came back again when I saw that vehicle. The robbery. The betrayal. The killing. Even if it wasn’t the same one, it still broke the levee that held back the emotions contained by a poorly managed institution when I saw that model of modern transportation.
And the more I thought about it, the more I saw it. At the 7-11. The post office. The Taco Bell drive thru. Everywhere I went there was a white sedan that represented my feelings for a person and an event.
All I could do was forget.