Drunk Driving Narrative

THE DRIVER was in a rush, and was actually gripping the steering wheel quite hard when it happened. The driver was quite aware and alert in the moments leading up to the crash, but was mostly concerned with the time than what the street ahead of him. Not really his fault either, because he had done everything right -- eyes ahead, three miles below the speed limit, and a foot gently resting above the brake in case anything drastic happened. Unfortunately, the driver, who was really a nice guy -- he was rushing to pick up his daughter from school early (it was her birthday, and he had balloons in the back, purple, just like her favorite color) -- and too busy worrying about whether he would be late to notice
THE PEDESTRIAN and her son were just

So instead of studying for his physics, he was instead snubbing out a cigarette butt out onto the ground when THE DRIVER, accelerating at a smooth 32 miles per hour, quietly slammed into THE PEDESTRIAN and her son. THE WITNESS didn’t even have time to react -- there was no dramatic tire squeal, no scream of the mother or child, no drama, no flare, not even a gasp of surprise. Just a quiet thump and then the sound of the car stopping. THE WITNESS looked down at his cigarette, still smouldering on the ground, and blinked slowly. He looked back up at the dented grill of the car, and started running, in the other direction - he didn’t even look back

Wind blew gently through the road, and kicked up dust. The car’s hazard lights blinked gently in the sun, which glinted gently across the dented metal. A bird chirped in the distance, and sang a quiet song. The car door opened, and a purple balloon floated out, the shiny cellophane shining quietly in the wind as it was carried into the heavens. THE DRIVER stumbled out of the car, his phone already pressed to his ear, calling for
HELP was slow coming. It picked up a call from an unknown number, and quietly asked what the emergency was, followed by a location. The woman who answered the HELP line had sipped a bit of mint tea before picking up the phone so as to sound composed, in control, to make sure her voice didn’t crack when she answered the call. She quietly typed in an address, noted a name and phone number, and sent the information to the relevant
AUTHORITIES, and their flashing lights arrived at the SCENE, and noted the PEDESTRIAN, THE DRIVER, and quickly cordoned off the area. “I’m going to be late,” the DRIVER said, repeatedly, as if the words would turn back the time. In the back of his car, the purple cellophane balloons drooped slightly. He wondered if his daughter would be okay with daddy being a little late, and wondered if any of his family had noticed he wasn’t there