A DEATH ON 24TH STREET

Witnessing a fatal hit-and-run in Manhattan didn’t just shake me; it forced me to re-examine my own life. words by Marina Prontelli illustrations by Jenny Katz

begin every morning the same way: wake up, catch the 7:47 a.m. bus from the Bronx to New York City, jump on the F train for three stops, and walk two blocks to work at my internship. I always pass the same man who holds the door open for every Dunkin Donuts customer, and the same old woman handing out prayer cards on the corner of 25th and 6th.

On Monday, June 24 at 9:23 am, I hopped off the subway and emerged from underground while bopping to Lizzo, ready to start another week of work, until I ran into a group of people stopped in the middle of the sidewalk staring across the street, unmoving. Confused, I pulled out my headphones and saw what everyone was staring at. Right there, in the middle of the busy street, was a bicyclist curled up in the fetal position. A white truck sped off. The bicyclist’s helmet, backpack, and bike lay strewn across 24th Street.

I had always thought about what I would do if I were faced with a situation where someone was injured right in front of me. Would I run over and help? Would I walk away? Call the police? That day answered my question. I couldn’t do any of those things. I stood there. Frozen. Unable to move any part of my body. A few seconds passed, and I snapped back to reality. People from every direction were sprinting across the street to see what was going on. Blood began to gush from the unidentified victim’s head. A truck had hit the cyclist. They flew three feet in the air and landed on the hard asphalt. The truck had bolted away instantaneously and was nowhere to be seen. People called 911, but I just watched. I forced my heavy, shaking legs to continue walking as I fumbled to open my bag and find my phone.

I numbly dialed my mom and broke down into hysterics. I tried to find the words to describe what I had just witnessed, but there was nothing I could say to accurately sum up the sheer brutality of the bicyclist’s body lying limp on the street. We talked and cried together until I reached the front door of my office. I wiped my puffy eyes before pressing the elevator button to the 4th floor, trying to compose myself and not draw any attention. I entered the office and no one asked me anything. No one even realized that my face was red and stained with tears—and for that I’m grateful. I couldn’t recount it again, not that day anyway.

I needed to know exactly what had happened. Who was it? Are they alive? Did they find the truck driver? I searched the internet for hours until I found what I had been looking for: “Cyclist Struck and Killed in Chelsea.” That morning, I had witnessed the aftermath of a 20-year-old woman getting hit and killed while biking to work. I was 20 years old and so were all of my closest friends. I had to read the article a few times before it really sunk in. Then I texted all my friends and told them I loved them. The thought that it could’ve been any of them lying on that street, without a pulse, haunted me for the rest of the day and into the following weeks. I spent the rest of the workday staring at my computer screen, unable to do anything productive. I thought about her family and how they expected her to come home that day after she got off work, just like my parents do every night. I thought about the pain she could’ve been in when she was first struck,

and how scared she must’ve been as she was thrown off her bike and into midair. These thoughts clouded my brain as I aimlessly scrolled through the news looking for more information about her.

As 5 p.m. rolled around, I logged out of my computer, grabbed my belongings and walked out the door. I retraced my steps from this morning and as I approached the scene, tears began streaming down my face. A memorial had already been erected with her mangled bicycle in the center and letters and flowers from loved ones and strangers alike surrounding it. I cried the entire bus ride home. When I finally crawled in bed that night I couldn’t fall asleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her lying on the ground, her bicycle and helmet strewn across the street and the white truck speeding off— with no respect for the human life they just ended. In the days following the accident, I began to process what I had witnessed. Everyone likes to think that they would help in a bad situation, but I couldn’t. I kept asking myself why didn’t I run across the street to help her. I know now that she died upon impact, so logically, I know I couldn’t have done anything to save or even prolong her life. But the fact that I didn’t do anything continues to wrack me with guilt.

I began to reflect on who I am as a person. What my values are, and most importantly, how I treat the people in my life. I’m stubborn by nature, and sometimes I let grudges build up. But seeing this woman lose her life so abruptly made me think twice about letting petty fights impact relationships with those closest to me. Knowing she won’t ever see her 21st birthday, won’t be able to go out with her friends and celebrate, won’t rise through the ranks of her career or be able to cross anything else off of her bucket list, but I’ll get the chance to do all that, seems too unfair to be true. I’d never witnessed death before, though my dad battled throat cancer when I was a junior in high school, and I lived in constant fear that it would take his life one day. I watched my strong, energetic, passionate dad turn into a thin shell of the man I’d known. But he survived. Yet this 20-year-old woman, at the height of her life, wasn’t as lucky. The memory of her lifeless body lying in the center of the 24th street is seared into my memory forever. JM