Washed Away
By Robin Knabel
He spit on the window, pulled his sleeve down over his hand, and washed away a circle of grime from the glass. His stomach lurched as he peered into the dim interior. Two children sat strapped into car seats. Secure, safe. Twenty little fingers, too small to escape, were blue, rigid. A pacifier lay wedged between the infant’s legs, the television screen above no longer showing cartoons or distractions. Open prescription bottles, an empty pint of vodka, and a desperate mother littered the front seat. Her phone plugged in, seeking life.
The river was cold that morning, and the light layer of ice formed over the accident scene had to be broken. He used to love coming to this spot with his family, taking in its simple beauty, before he didn’t have time. He was too busy, too important to take a break, always telling them they’d do it again soon, maybe when the weather was nicer.
He turned to usher onlookers past the scene as they strolled close, wondering why the minivan was on the bank, covered in muck, water weeping out the bottom.
His job was never easy and working scenes like this made him want to go home, tell his wife and kids how much he loved them, wrap his arms around them and hold them tight. “I wish I had told you more often,” he whispered, his warm breath covered the opening he created with a fog, entombing his family in darkness once more.
The river was cold that morning, and the light layer of ice formed over the accident scene had to be broken. He used to love coming to this spot with his family, taking in its simple beauty, before he didn’t have time. He was too busy, too important to take a break, always telling them they’d do it again soon, maybe when the weather was nicer.
He turned to usher onlookers past the scene as they strolled close, wondering why the minivan was on the bank, covered in muck, water weeping out the bottom.
His job was never easy and working scenes like this made him want to go home, tell his wife and kids how much he loved them, wrap his arms around them and hold them tight. “I wish I had told you more often,” he whispered, his warm breath covered the opening he created with a fog, entombing his family in darkness once more.
Robin Knabel is a fiction author with degrees in anthropology and biology. Her past work has received an honorable mention in the NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge, and has been reviewed in multiple workshops through the Indiana University Lifelong Learning program. She has also attended three Indiana University Writer & Conferences, presenting her work at two readings.