My Angriest Moment

I'm not really an angry kind of person. I've always associated feelings of anger with some kind of underlying insecurity. When I see people get angry, I perceive it as an inability to keep their emotions under control. Anger to me is almost a crutch for the weak - for people who aren't responsible enough to think logically and avoid overreacting. All of this isn't to say I'm some kind of emotionless freak who has never felt a hint of anger.

There are undoubtedly times where anger appears as the result of what seems like some kind of biological reflex that simply cannot be controlled. An automatic response motivated and executed by something inside my DNA; well beyond the realm of my conscious control. But for the most part, I actively seek to suppress a majority of my "angry" feelings, since my past has taught me that most of the time these feelings are unsubstantiated and largely unnecessary. Unless I am really provoked by something, I'm laid-back, and I find that this philosophy has served me well.

What all of this unfortunately means for me is that I have not given myself much of a chance to hone my anger. This leads to all sorts of incorrect projections of my displeasure including, overstatements, understatements, and misapplications. Such was the case about three years ago. To be honest, most of my memories of the events are faded. What I do remember are certain images, words, and other bits and pieces from which I put together a coherent and accurate story.

It was very late, something like two or three in the morning. I punched in my electronic garage code and crept under the half open door back into my house. I don't remember what it was exactly, but I IMMEDIATELY knew something was wrong. I wasn't panicking or anything, just something seemed a little off. It may have been the absolute silence, or the lack of my father in his usual position watching T.V. on the couch downstairs.

The house appeared deserted. No father, no mother, no brother no dog. No dog. I remember that one thought clear as hell. My immediate reaction to the circumstances was something had happened to the dog. She got hit by a car or something, and my family had rushed her to the vet. I don't know why my mind jumped to that conclusion. It probably says something about me, the way my mind works, or some deep philosophical bullshit like that, but nonetheless, this was my initial fear.

After double-checking the house, I started to get concerned. The logical, problem-solving portion of my brain was telling me that there was probably a feasible and satisfactory explanation, but my eyes couldn't find evidence to corroborate the fact. I took out my cell phone, and called my dad. He answered after a couple of rings.

"Your brother was in a car accident."

Lacey came out questioningly from behind the couch and greeted me. Contradictory emotions. The dog's okay. Matt isn't. But something in my dad's voice had somehow told me that my brother was probably still alive and well. I checked nonetheless:

"Is he okay?"

"He should be fine. We're in the hospital. I don't know for how much longer. I have to get back to him, keep your phone on and I will keep you updated."

So what do I do now? I didn't have enough information. I hate being left out of the loop, especially with things like this. I went online to talk to someone, anyone, because I was pretty confused. Should I be upset? Should I be angry, scared? I'm not too good with emotions. So, I just sat there and waited for a call from my dad.

About forty minutes later he called me and told me the basic details of the accident. There were four kids in the car, all of whom I was friends with, including my brother. Oren was driving. Of course he was. Oren is THE WORST fucking driver I know. Just two weeks prior, my dad had prohibited my brother from ever getting in the car with him after watching him peel out from in front my house after picking my brother up.

At the time of the accident, he was doing seventy in a twenty-five around a blind curve with a dip in the road. I knew the spot well. Oren ended up putting the brand new car that his mommy and daddy bought him into a tree. All four were kids hospitalized. I hung up the phone, and I felt nothing. It was like emotional purgatory. I just felt... default. Nothing at all. Then, out of nowhere, a wave of anger crashed into me. What the hell was wrong with me? My brother and three friends were lying, possibly dying, in a hospital right now and I really had no emotions to show for it. I waited for my suppression reflex, but I knew it wasn't coming.

Then my brain re-channeled the anger. Oren. I didn't even fucking like him anyway. Fucking idiot, driving like an asshole all the time, trying to show off for everybody. Who the fuck did he think he was? It was entirely his fault. He was driving, he was speeding, and he was being reckless. And then, I sincerely wished he'd die in that hospital.

My brother was home from the hospital the next night, and he was fine except for some bruising on his chest from the seatbelt. The other kids were still in the hospital, some had broken ribs, internal bleeding, fractured ankles, but all of them were going to be okay after some rehabilitation. Doctor's called him "the luckiest one." I remember listening to my brother's first hand account of the story. He described a lack of progression of events that was particularly chilling. He said it wasn't like, "Oh, the window shattered, then the airbags came out, and then I flew forward." Instead, everything had happened in a single moment of instantaneous fury, when all around him was glass, chaos, noise, and metal.

He told me he didn't know if he was still alive after it was over, and described his own anger and shock as he looked over at his bleeding friends strewn about the wreckage across the road. This graphic description reinforced my feelings of anger towards Oren. How dare he put my own brother through a traumatizing situation like that? Stories from my parents of how Oren's parents avoided them in the emergency room, refusing to talk to them, much less apologize, didn't help the situation.

And when I saw Oren's parents a week later and was introduced to them as "the brother of one of the kid's in the car," and received nothing more than a silent stare, I almost fucking smashed Oren in his face, while he sat in his shiny metal wheelchair, sporting two broken legs. I walked away from him and have not said a word to him since.

Every once and awhile people will try to give me a weak, emotionless speech on how it wasn't Oren's fault. That's the kind of shit I simply cannot stand. These people have no idea the anger I felt that night. It's almost as if whatever chemicals were surging through me at that moment have decided to linger in my bloodstream forever. Anytime Oren or the accident is brought up - or even when I pass the stump of the tree that remains - the anger returns. It will always be a constant reminder.

Is my anger justified? I don't know. I don't even care to tell you the truth. But I do know that I am way too stubborn to reconsider anything. Emotions like the ones I felt that night should be taken for a lot more than their face value. Something inside of me that knew the truth was trying to make the right decision for me.

Pictures may be worth a thousand words, but emotions intense as those are worth a thousand pictures. Someone will take responsibility for what happened, and in my mind, it's always going to be Oren. I'll always hate him, for being an idiot, for being selfish, for being the one person who brought my little brother closer to death than anyone else has.