I wrote this for a class in college. The idea came when I was driving home with my friend for the weekend and someone on the road was driving like a lunatic. The title "Lumina" is based on her, then, car.
The sun hangs low in the horizon as Owen Cooper drives down the deserted highway in his Chevy Silverado truck, glaring rays of sunlight hitting his eyes. A country singer’s caterwauling drawl fills the silence as he taps his fingers against the steering wheel. Instead of watching the road his mind focuses on creating a devious prank to use on his best friend Pete. Owen lost the advantage in their ever escalating competition two nights ago when his play mate broke into his apartment and held a knife to his throat. At least, he thought it was a knife. After several panic filled moments his friend revealed that his weapon of choice was actually a metal spork. The bastard. In order to regain his dignity, Owen needs something good and terrifying
“Speak of the devil,” he mutters, noticing a car in front of him. “I don’t freakin’ believe it. That’s gotta be him. No way in hell there are two guys in this podunk little town driving a ’97 plum colored Chevy Lumina. Hot damn.”
Idea forming, Owen’s lips curl into a malicious grin as his foot presses down on the accelerator. Flicking his brights on, he brings the truck scant inches from the back bumper of the Lumina. A sharp tap of his foot sends the truck lurching forward. Thunk! He chuckles as the Lumina gives a staggering wobble before speeding up. Pushing down on the pedal, Owen once again brings the vehicles dangerously close. Thwomp! Another burst of speed sends the Lumina fishtailing over the center line before it straightens. The car begins to pull over.
“It’s not gonna be that easy,” Own mumbles.
With a sharp twist of the steering wheel he rams the front of his truck into the back corner of the Lumina. A satisfying crunch resounds on impact causing him to laugh when the plum colored Chevy peals away in a shower of gravel.
“That’s it Bubba, now you’re playin’ my game.”
Tensing in anticipation Owen shoots after the Lumina, putting more and more pressure onto the accelerator. Sixty. Seventy. Eighty and still climbing. A burst of cruel staccato laughter drowns out the country music as he draws closer to the retreating car. He pushes the pedal to the floor, enjoying the sound of the engine’s roar. His body thrums with the vibration of the car. Just gotta round this corner and I’m putting a giant ass crater in the back of Pete’s car, he thinks, tightening his grip in preparation for the sharp turn.
“Just a little bit further. C’mon, c’mon,” he hunches over the steering wheel, “FUCK!”
Slamming a foot on the brakes the sharp pull of the seatbelt and the loud scream of the tires don’t register, Owen’s attention is pinpointed on the corner where the Chevy Lumina had been only seconds before. He blinks. Blinks again. Then draws in a ragged breath. Jaw slack and arms limp on the wheel; Owen’s mind can’t seem to register what he just saw.
The Lumina takes the corner too wide, pulls hard to adjust as the back swings out off the road, past the gravel, and into the air over the gully next to the highway. The car is almost perpendicular with the road before the loss of traction causes it to tip, the nose falling backwards over the back, before careening downhill into the trees. It took the corner too fast, had to have been going at least eighty-five. And it’s a sharp corner. Too fast and too sharp.
Fuck.
Shifting his truck into park, Owen pushes open the door and slowly, mechanically, follows the skid marks to the edge of the road. There is a long, horrifying gouge in the ground where underbrush used to be. Eyes scanning for any sign of the car, he tries to swallow but gags, his throat is to dry. A flash of plum catches his eye. His gaze fixates on it. There is a roaring in his ears; belatedly Owen realizes it is the sound of his heart leaping like a jackhammer. And then he’s running.
“Oh God. Oh hell. Goddamn damn stupid freaking hell,” he mumbles, feet eating away at the ground as he races to the car. “Please. Please, please, please. Ohhhhh, Holy Mary Mother of Fuck. Shit fuck!”
Tripping over his feet he falls smacking his face off the ground before scrambling back into a run. The car has stopped, the backseat buckling around the trunk of a tree. The driver’s window is smashed out. Owen cringes at the sound of glass breaking under his feet as he goes to it, hoping his friend is still alive. The driver is slumped over the steering wheel, hands gripping loosely, with his head turned at an unnatural angle. Wide eyes and an open mouth, a face locked in a scream, peer out the window at Owen. A chill sweeps through him as his throat constricts. It’s not his friend
Staggering back, Owen feels the burning threat of tears in his eyes and nose. He swallows, gags, then falls to his knees gasping, dry heaving, trying to breathe even as his stomach revolts. It’s just a kid. Some poor, dumb kid barely into his teens. A moan comes from inside the car. Slowly, trembling, Owen climbs to his feet and staggers over to the car. Gingerly he leans over the body of the boy and realizes for the first time that there is someone in the passenger seat. It’s a woman, young probably, but the mask of blood and swelling makes it hard to tell. She’s slumped in the seat, hanging limply against the seatbelt with her head pressed against the cracked window of her door. With great effort a quivering hand is raised towards the boy.
“Please,” she rasps as fresh blood oozes from her mouth.
“I’m sorry,” Owen whispers, unable to tear his gaze from her broken, quaking hand.
Cracked lips open but a whimper is all that escapes.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It was a mistake, y’know, an accident. This wasn’t supposed to happen because I was trying to play a prank on my friend, I thought you were my friend, but I didn’t want this, not this, not ever, to you or him, but things got outta hand, and if I’d known, I shoulda known, it wouldn’t have happened, but I didn’t know and it happened, so you gotta believe me that I’m sorry cause it was just a prank, a stupid prank that wasn’t s’posed to be like this,” Owen rants, voice gaining volume and speed.
Suddenly it’s too much for him. Those glassy eyes staring at him from the boy’s permanently terrified face and that hand, that mangled broken hand reaching out for help that he can’t give. It’s too much. There’s an accusing look in those eyes and that hand’s pointing at him, trying to mark him as a fiend. It was an accident. He said he was sorry. Nothing else he can do. Another pleading moan escapes from the woman, and something inside Own snaps. Backing away, he turns and sprints towards the road, hands digging into dirt as he scrambles up the hillside. Owen notices another car pull over as he peals off down the highway.
Owen wakes with a start, his body and sheets drenched in sweat, heart thrashing in his chest. The gray tiles of his ceiling stare down at him; stray beams of orange light filtering through the window illuminate the tiles frayed state. Dark shadows consume the majority of the room leaving it in a state of gloom. Scrubbing at his face with a hand, he tries to calm down with deep breaths. Every night for the past six months he’s been reliving that tragic accident in his sleep. He can force back the guilt when he’s awake, but the moment his eyes close his conscience won’t allow a minute’s rest. Every night the crunch of metal, those glassy staring eyes, and that desperate rasping “please” replay in his mind. Even the presence of his girlfriend does nothing to sooth the nightmares. Owen isn’t sure if it’s the fact that he accidentally killed someone, that he ran away, or that he hasn’t told anyone the truth about what happened keeping him up at night. Shivering as the after images flash through his mind, Owen looks longingly at his sleeping girlfriend before climbing out of bed. There is no way he will be able to get back to sleep
In the kitchen he decides to open yesterday’s mail while waiting for the coffee to finish. Bill, bill, ad, free coupon, and a letter he opens while pouring himself a cup of black coffee. Opening the envelope he pulls out a folded piece of paper. CRASH! The mug slips from his grasp as porcelain and coffee scatter across the floor. On the sheet is a picture of the boy he killed and written in sharp red letters that leech into the paper is one word:
MURDERER.
The crunch of buckling metal roars in his ears, the smell of vomit and blood replaces coffee, and those glassy eyes stare at him in silent accusation. “Please,” the sound of that pleading voice drowns out everything else.
“…en…Owen…OWEN!” He jerks back to reality at the sound of his name being yelled. Shaking his head to get rid of the daze, Owen realizes his girlfriend is standing next to him, shaking his shoulder and hollering.
“Raina. What are you doing up?”
“The sound of the coffee mug smashing woke me.”
“What coffee mug?”
“The one smashed all over the floor!” she pauses, taking in his ashen features. “What’s wrong with you?”
Grabbing a dish towel from the counter she crouches down to clean up the mess.
“I’m just tired. Nothin’ for you to worry about.”
“That piece of paper in your hand sure as hell makes it seem like something.”
Looking down, Owen realizes he’s still clutching the picture of the dead boy.
“Like I said, it’s nothing. Just somebody’s idea of a dumb prank,” Owen winces as the words leave his mouth.
“Liar. If it was nothing you wouldn’t be making that face.”
“What do you want from me?”
Pausing, Raina stares at his face but he refuses to meet her gaze.
“I just want to know what’s going on. That thing says murderer on it, and you’re white as a sheet.” She stands and makes him look her in the eye. “There is absolutely nothing in this world that could ever make me feel differently towards you.”
Owen gives her a weak smile and watches as she drops the porcelain into the garbage. His eyes follow her around the kitchen as she grabs a dish towel and crouches again to soak up the spilled coffee. Looking down at the photo of the smiling boy in his hands, the image of glassy eyes flashes across his mind, and he releases a loud sigh.
“You’re going to hate me for this, but I suppose if I’m gonna tell anyone it might as well be you. Six months ago I was driving home from work and I saw my buddy Pete’s car. We had this real nasty way of playing pran…jokes on each other, real violent ones, and I got this great idea. Except it wasn’t so great. I uh, kept ridin’ real close to his car, tailgating, y’know? And I’d hit it with my truck, and he’d speed up, then I’d catch up and hit him again. We started goin’ really fast and um, he lost control. The whole car just tipped over the edge of the road, way down an embankment into the woods. When I found it the car was wrapped around a tree and he was dead.”
“We, uh, we just hung out with Pete last week.”
“It wasn’t Pete’s car.”
“Whose car was it?”
“This kid’s,” he holds up the paper in his hand. “The boy in this picture died because I was screwin’ around. There was a woman in the car with him, don’t know if she lived or died.”
“Didn’t you help them?” A trembling edge of desperation enters her voice.
“No. I panicked. It was a total accident, because I never wanted anybody to get hurt. Pete’s a really good driver so I thought he could handle it, except it wasn’t, it wasn’t…”
“Pete,” she finishes, “it was some kid who didn’t know what hit him.”
“Yeah. Since then I’ve been getting nightmares about it every night. And about three weeks ago this picture of the kid has been showing up everywhere I go. His folks have started a memorial scholarship in his honor and their lookin’ for donations. People have been putting these fliers up at my job, the place I buy groceries, on my windshield, but it was all harmless. Now someone is sending his picture to my apartment with a clear message. You killed him and I know about it.”
“Have you told anyone else about it?”
“No. You’re the first.”
She wipes up the last of coffee. Owen studies her face.
“You hate me now, right?”
“No. My feelings for you haven’t changed.”
“Then why do I get the idea there’s a but at the end of that sentence?”
“I just—I don’t understand. You killed this kid and you feel bad about it, right?”
“Yeah, it’s been eatin’ me up inside.”
“If you feel so guilty, why don’t you go to the cops?”
“Because they’ll arrest me!”
“Right, but wouldn’t they, I don’t know, be willing to cut a deal or something if you turn yourself in?”
“I killed a kid. They won’t let me walk because I feel really bad about it,” Owen points out, growing irritated.
Glaring blindly at the floor, Raina scrubs at the tiles.
“It’s the right thing to do! Don’t you want that boy’s family to have some peace?”
“Not if it means I go to jail with a murder charge.”
“You’re scared, I get that. If you want I’ll go with you to the sheriff’s office.”
“What are you gonna do? Hold my hand the entire time?” Owen sneers, scowling down at her. Hating Raina for not understanding.
“If that’s what it takes.”
“Gee officer, can my girlfriend come along with me? She’s gotta hold my hand.”
Coffee starts leaking from the dishtowel as Raina presses harder on the tile.
“I sure as hell won’t anymore.”
“Guess I’m not going to the cops then.”
Minutes pass as Owen watches the cold brown liquid seep across the linoleum. Eyes traveling up, he takes in Raina’s white knuckled grip, tense shoulders, the teeth buried in her lower lip, and the salty tear tracks drying on her face. Sighing, he shakes his head.
“I can’t go to the police because they’ll arrest me.”
“You won’t even consider it?” She asks, voice quivering.
“I don’t want to go to jail.”
“Even if it means you’ll be free from the guilt and it gives his family a little justice?”
“I knew you wouldn’t understand.”
“Then make me understand.”
Reaching down Owen takes the dishtowel from her and begins sopping up the cold remnants of coffee.
“You’re not going to like it.”
“Do you think I’d like it any better drunk?”
“You might.”
“In that case, do you have any liquor?”
“Should be some scotch in that cabinet over there,” he says, pointing over his shoulder.
Owen listens to the sound of glass clinking on plastic followed by the splash of liquid pouring. His chest feels tight. But with a little convincing, he thinks, Raina will come around. Standing up, he wrings the dishtowel out in the sink. He feels her step up behind him. Chin resting on his shoulder, her arm loops around him offering a plastic glass filled a quarter of the way with scotch. Taking it, he swallows it in one shot, relishing the burn in his throat.
“C’mon,” Raina says, taking his hand and leading him out of the kitchen.
Head starting to spin, Owen notices his body feels heavier. With stumbling footsteps he follows her out the door of his apartment, down the hall, into the elevator. Slumping against the wall, his eyes blur as he tries to focus on Raina’s face.
“Thrrr’s somthin’ wrrrong,” he slurs, reaching for her.
Owen feels her slinging his arm over her shoulders as she pulls him back onto his feet. Leaning heavily on Raina, she supports his staggering form as they lurch through the empty lobby out to the barren parking lot next to his apartment building. He feels her pushing him into a car, his body dropping like a lead weight. As the world grows dim the last thing he hears is the woman’s voice from the accident rasping her frantic “Please.”
