Flash Prose: Bad Idea

Bad Idea

by Lila Ahitov

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 “I think they’re asleep” 

          “No, they are not, they are definitely dead,” Joe responds to my wishful statement. 

           We stand in silence, trying to ignore the drip drip drip of rain on our car windshield. I knew this was a bad idea—taking Dad's car and joyriding around at night. Neither of us even has our license. I see Joe approach the two deer in the middle of the street. Their blood is dripping out, getting washed up from the intensifying drizzle. 

          “What are you doing?” I ask as Joe gets closer and closer to the bigger one’s head. 

          “Checking the pulse,” he responds as if it was the most obvious course of action. 

          “Don’t touch it! Fingerprints,” I exclaim. Did he not know the simplest rule in a crime scene? Don’t. Touch. Anything. 

          “Oh, come on Harold, it’s okay. We should call a vet or something. Animal ambulance, is that a thing? Or maybe-” 

          “You're the one that thinks they're dead. What will an ambulance do? Let’s call a butcher,” I interject, my eyes searching the empty road for any unwanted witnesses. 

          “A butcher? That’s awful.” 

          “Think about how much trouble we’d get into either way. We took dad’s car; I only have my permit. We went 80 on a 30, and then hit 2 deer,” I stammer, the reality of the situation hitting me hard. 

          “Not just hit. Killed,” Joe says. As if that makes the burden shift. 

          “I think we should go, drive away, clean the tires, we were never here.” This was a bad idea. 

 

A brief note about work

Me and my brother have always been close. I chose this particular memory because as he is now in college, I find myself wandering into his room. I half expect to find him there. He would be reading a book, on the phone, or asleep, waiting to be a victim of my next prank. There have been many times of us recounting our night's adventures or me pestering him while he’s with his friends in his room. One of my oldest memories is me drawing a mustache on him in permanent marker the night before his school field trip.

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About the author

Since a young age, Lila has loved writing. Both reading the French books that her mother put her to bed with or attempting the lyrics of her dad’s favorite childhood Turkish songs, she noticed words. Heavy emotions can sometimes be burdening, and writing things, like her submission, helps release it. She is filled with gratitude for the freedom of choice in her future, which she hopes to include writing, travel, and law. Lila lives in Los Angeles, CA and is in 11th grade at Windward School.