Title: The Eye-Witness (1/1) Author: Shirlock Rating: Carthartic Angst Category: V/A/ MSR/ Third person POV Disclaimer: I have nothing to declare except Carter's genius and my predilection to torturing angst-monkeys... Spoilers: None Archive: OK Gossy, OK Spookys. Anyone else please ask: shirlock67@home.com Completed 14 June 2001 Summary: An eye-witness to an accident that claims the life of a beloved. This is Part 11 of a series of third person pov. You do not need to read the others to understand this. For: All those angst-mongers amongst us. ********** Baltimore, 5:55pm It happened so quickly. So quickly that I wonder if it happened this way at all. Such is the ambivalence eye-witnesses must deal with. The endless questions and knitted looks that arouse sympathy from bystanders and passers-by as I am interrogated by the police. I am not the guilty one, but the scrutiny is searing into my back by those who are at the scene but who did not witness the accident. They are wondering what I saw. What I had witnessed. I look back at the wreck and know for certain a life has been taken. Another two hang in the balance. There is hardly any front left of the Ford Taurus with its tin-can hood accordioned into the driver's seat. The airbag was as useful as a breastplate armour in front of a battering ram. The firemen had sawed through the framework of iron and steel in a bid to cut out the remaining passengers in under five minutes. The explosion no one expected took place just as the burly fireman hauled out what appeared to be a young toddler still strapped to his babyseat. His fire-resistant jacket briefly protected him but the force of the blast caused pieces of the wreckage to pierce his lower back. There was pandemonium and mayhem. There were ambulances and police cars trying to meander through peak-hour traffic. I shudder at the scene still automatically replaying in my mind. A four-way traffic junction. I could clearly see the red taurus on the opposite side of the street. The driver was a pretty woman, her beauty amplified in the careless way she tossed her head when she laughed. Her husband was sitting behind with his son showing him a toy I recognised had come from the new animated Disney movie Atlantis. I had thought momentarily 'what a beautiful family'. Suddenly, I cringe from the image- like a new coat of orange paint- fresh in my mind yet not quite the right colour. I remember the argument I had with my wife yesterday morning before I left the house. She had used words like 'happiness' and 'no regrets'. I had left the house angry. I saw red. But now. I recall the helplessness of recoiling from the impending impact as the Explorer veered from the turning lane into the junction trying to beat that amber light. I remember gripping the steering wheel and watching with overwhelming alarm the way it ploughed into that family. I remember the stark white hotness of that moment when I instinctly cried out in synchronised pain. The woman was killed instantly. My little brother used to drink tomato juice and called it blood when it dripped from the carton. I knew tomato juice could never pass off as blood in the movies. Real blood is a rich syrupy red. I feel nauseous from learning that fact just now. My hand is still covering my mouth when I try to wet my lips. That could've been my family. That could've been someone close to me. That was not a thought I wanted to entertain. But it nags at me. It picks at an old, unhealed wound. Life never seemed more fragile than this moment; happiness never more fleeting. My mother would tell me things happen for a reason. The reason, in this case, was that the driver of the 4x4 was trying to get somewhere in a hurry. He was alive and was crying from the pain when I tried to free him from his vehicle. I don't know why but I was afraid for this man. I was afraid of becoming this man- knowing that I had the power to destroy just like he had. "Excuse me, sir?" I look up at the policeman whose badge is a golden shield with numbers 3099201 on it. All I see is that shield. All I can think of is the blood, the victims of the accident and the families who will grieve for them. Then I think of my family. "I think that's all for now. Thank you for waiting. If you can leave a telephone number in Baltimore-" "-I don't live here." My voice sounds lost and contrite as I scribble a number on his clipboard. "The address you gave me earlier?" "Is my mother's. And so is this number. I'm...here for a couple of days." "Alright, sir. You can go now. Thank you for your help." He takes the clipboard back. I take one last look at the place where it all happened. At the other shocked witnesses who stare blankly, probably reviewing the incident much like I have. I walk over to a phone booth and draw out a folded piece of paper my wife had snuck into my wallet. I dial the number and wait patiently. My hands are trembling and I quell the urge to just sink into the ground. Everything was over in a flash. I had witnessed a woman who for one moment was alive and who the very next moment was not. She had died while driving her small family home from MacDonalds? Or to the grocers? Maybe they were just going to go to the park. I feel my emotions spiral as I realise why I had to witness the accident. Life is too short to hold grudges and too precious to waste on regrets. The phone rings five times before a woman picks it up. "Scully." Her voice is surprisingly cheerful. But I decide, so must mine. "Hi Dana. It's Bill...I'm in town and I...I'd love to come see you. All of you." end. Author's notes: Couldn't resist it folks. Bill Scully needs reconci- liation with his sister the same way Mulder needed closure with his. All my other writing can be read at: http://members.nbci.com/shirlock1013/