Red On Yellow

I swirl my wine in one hand, feet crossed and resting on the wooden coffee table. In the dim, warm light of our lounge room, the rich liquid looks black through the delicate glass. I have one arm resting on the back of the lounge, but remove it to check my watch; gold straps with a black-backed timepiece. In the silence I can hear its soft click as the seconds tick by.

My wife is a few minutes late, I wonder what's kept her. I glance over and see her tea waiting on the kitchen counter, untouched as it grows cold.

Headlights shine through the window and I hear the garage door squeaking as it slowly opens for her car. I smile and sit up straighter, ready to stand and greet her with a hug, to kiss her baby bump. The garage closes again, and I hear a car door open and close through the wall.

Her footsteps drag as she approaches down the hall. I stand as she rounds the corner.

“Oh my god, what’s wrong?” I say. Her face is ashen and her hands tremble, holding her belly. She looks up at me with wide eyes, lips parted.

“I…” She says. I come to her, putting hands on her shoulders. She looks back down the hall to the garage.

“Are you ok? Is it the baby?” She absently shakes her head, but I don’t know to what question. She trembles as I take her into my arms.

“What happened? Honey, you’re kinda freaking me out. I don’t…” She keeps looking toward the garage.

Slowly I release her, look at her face, then walk down the hall. She drifts along behind me like a ghost. I put a hand on the doorknob and our eyes meet. My stomach turns over as I open the door.

The light is already on; bright white bulb shining on my wife’s neon yellow car. There is blood all over the bonnet. Red splatters contrast with the yellow paint, vivid and stark. I can smell it in the air.

“Holy fucking shit.” I say. A thick glob of blood drips on the concrete. “What the fuck. What happened?” I turn back to my wife. Her eyes are glued to the blood on her car. “You…hit an animal?” I ask, praying. I feel sick.

Her eyes slowly raise to mine. They are blood shot, shining with unshed tears. She bares her teeth, and her bottom lip trembles as she shakes her head. I freeze. My vision goes dark around the edges as I stare at her. She lets out a sob. It all comes out in a rush.

“…kid came out of nowhere.” Her eyes are pleading with me, “I only heard it. I didn’t see. I got out to check on him-” She breaks off, sobbing. A keen escapes through her lips, her shoulder’s hunch. I know I should go to her but I can’t bear the thought of touching her. I look away. I want to vomit. “When I saw him, I- I just left. His…head wasn’t the right shape anymore.” She breaks down, crying, clutching at her hair, sucking air in and out.

“Oh my god.” I whisper.

“It wasn’t my fault! I didn’t even see-” She weeps. It seems like she is trying to convince me, begging. “I don’t want to go to jail. I can’t, the baby, I-” I can’t understand the rest as she breaks into hysterics.

I feel my breath coming fast and shallow as I fight to keep from throwing up at the thought of the body my wife left behind. A kid. Mangled, bleeding on the road.

I can hear my heartbeat pounding in my ears. It wasn’t her fault, but there is a weight in my stomach when I look at her. I can’t stop imagining the wet thud, and her scream has she slams on the breaks. I can almost see worried parents checking the time as they wait for their son to arrive. They wonder what's keeping him, and his food grows cold. But he won’t be coming home.

Images of cop cars and courtrooms flash through my mind; of our baby growing up with a conviction hanging over his mother’s head. My wife in cuffs. Her life, our life, ruined for a kid who ran in front of her car. It wasn’t her fault. I repeat it over and over in my head, but I can’t stop wondering if he screamed when he died. It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t her fault-

“Did…anyone see?” My voice is tight, I don’t sound like myself. She looks up at me, eyes wide. The only sound is our laboured breathing. My wife shakes her head, slowly. “Then…nothing happened.” I say, forcing out the words.

My wife looks as though she has never seen me before; her lip upturned and nose crinkled in frozen horror, then looks at the bloody car. She starts shaking her head.

“I- I-” She says.

“We can’t lose…” I trail off, looking at her belly. She rubs it fervently, as though to check he’s ok. Our eyes meet.

Her skin looks haggard, and a sickly colour, like she’s holding down vomit. In the harsh light of the garage, I see more tears glistening in her wide, blood-shot eyes. Slowly, she lowers her head in a half nod and walks back into the house.

I turn back to the red mess on the yellow car, feeling bile in my throat. The blood is drying. I am struck by how much it looks like paint.

Through the walls, I can hear my wife retch as I clean. I can hear her sobs. I can hear her incoherent words as she talks to her belly; begging, justifying.

When I’m done, there is no evidence that anything happened that night. Just a haunted look in my wife's eyes whenever we drive, and the brown, drying blood under my fingernails, which never seems to come out.