The Cartoonish-Red Buick

Written by Laura Vance

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Told in the first person narrative, this flash memoir depicts the event of a sexual assault, so reader’s discretion is advised. This piece placed second in Writer Advice’s 2023 Flash Memoir Contest beneath the prompt, “Describe a time you learned a lesson.”

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How did I get here?

This thought is not a rare one as I find myself, once again, trapped beneath him in the backseat of his cartoonish-red Buick that reeks of oil and germaphobia. Every altercation begins differently but ends the same – my body immobile beneath his torso – making every moment I spend with him ripe with unsettling unpredictability. I don’t know why I keep seeing him. I don’t know if I will ever really know why.

Beneath the vague displeasure that festers in my chest, I wish he would touch my face, my arms, my hair. Anything that isn’t where his hands are right now, fumbling and squeezing like the jaws of a hyperactive puppy trapped on a squeaky toy. I know he’s probably not pleased with my hair after what I did to it, but that can’t be the reason he’s excitedly groping my breasts instead. I pretend it’s because he told me he loves me. Recently I have been a huge partitioner of make-believe.

Somewhere in the depths of my garbage can at home are several eight- inch chunks of hair that I recently severed from my head. The result of my impulsivity is a choppy, yellow bob that slices my neck every time I move. It’s probably unattractive to him, but that doesn’t really stop him from kissing me.

So, I keep kissing him back, because at least he seems to be fond of my lips, and I’m fond of the illusion of being loved.

Unfortunately, the lie doesn’t fully mask the overwhelming urge to exfoliate every inch of my body, but I don’t really care enough – about myself or my dignity – to say the two-letter word I have been attempting to suppress for ages. Would he even give us enough breathing time to listen?

It won’t even matter.

Nothing matters.

How did I get here?

Strobing scenes tease my eyes without ever fully forming. A flash of me in my little black Homecoming dress, lingering eyes in statistics class, two cups of hot chocolate, a face hidden in a bookshelf. None of them make much sense here. It makes me dizzy.

So, here I am, somehow in the backseat of his cartoonish-red Buick that reeks of oil and germaphobia, suddenly snapping out of my self-induced coma of apathy as he begins to unbutton my shirt. For someone so concerned with cleanliness, a habitual hand-washer, a chronic clean freak, this man – this boy – makes me feel so unfathomably dirty. But my mind has a convenient habit of ignoring the filthiness until well after he’s done with me.

The second button is undone. My chest feels cold, my bra an insufficient shield between him and his goal. Slowly, like my eyes are fluttering open for the first time, it’s dawning on me that there’s no one around. Absolutely no one. An intense feeling of fear penetrates the self-built wall of numbness I had so carefully constructed. The bricks crumble to the ground and finally, finally, I feel something.

Terror, cold and raw, ravages my chest.

I’m disgusted with him, but above all, I’m utterly repulsed with myself. Anxiety rips all my nerves in half. Vomit and tears battle inside of me as they fight to escape first.

What are you doing?

She used to collect the weeds she liked to call flowers in her suburban backyard and arrange them on her windowsill until they wilted and withered away. Her curtains had butterflies on them. She dressed up her Barbies and took special care not to touch them in certain places because she didn’t want to make her dolls uncomfortable. Her parents told her to never let anyone touch her in those places, and she tried very hard to be obedient.

All her life, she tried very hard to be obedient.

Wash your hands after using the bathroom.

Double knot your shoelaces.

Eat your broccoli.

Practice your violin.

Brush your teeth.

Talk to God every night.

Say no.

Never be afraid to say no.

She’s a child, learning the rules all over again. Stumbling and tripping and learning to speak. She stutters to make a sound, confused by her new world and why it makes her so scared. Why the people who say they love her do bad things.

She doesn’t know the answer just then, and likely never will, but she breathes in anyway and braces the world.

Her first word will be a strong one.

Quotes by Critics

"I’m delighted to know that you’re a student. Boy do you have a promising future!" - Award Winning Author, Lynn Goodwin

"I had to look twice at the closing sentence before I realized that her first word will be “No.” It was worth looking a second time. This narrator has a powerful voice and so do you, the author." - Award Winning Author, Lynn Goodwin

"The descriptions, tone and pace of this piece were spot on. The scene is set so clearly by the narrator, and I was completely caught up in the mix of emotions. I loved how it switched from first person to 3rd person at the end, the ending for me was extremely powerful." - Previous Flash Memoir Contest Winner

​"The line “...squeezing like the jaws of a hyperactive puppy trapped on a squeaky toy” is very creative, and paints a picture both of the man’s immaturity and the way the narrator feels objectified by him. I really love the return to the narrator’s childhood at the end of this story, and the final line, “Her first word will be a strong one” speaks very powerfully of new strength and rebirth." - Previous Flash Memoir Contest Winner