Driving
He felt despair. As much as he would have liked to label it something else, it was just that - despair. The dump truck in front of him kicked up a rock and it bounced off the windshield leaving a small star shaped crack. Tyler reached up and rubbed his thumb over it. He cold feel the cold of the windshield, and underneath the pad of his finger, he could feel the crack, the indentation, the sharp pain it brought. If he kept doing this, he would slice his finger open.
He didn't stop. Tyler rubbed until he felt the skin raw and then broken. He took his hand away, and saw a small red stain over the crack. He turned the hand over, looked at the finger. A diagonal slash welled blood, beaded, then dropped onto his lap.
Maybe it was the song on the radio, something about being in the arms of angels, but he felt the despair deepen. It burrowed into his heart, made his head ache. Tears, surprising him, pricked the corners of his eyes. Like a man in a daze, he pulled the thumb to him and sucked. He imagined someone looking in on his car, seeing a man, dark hair, glasses, sucking on his them while a massive orange dump truck bounced in front of him kicking up stones.
Someone actually did notice this and thought, "If that guy doesn't slow down, he's doing to hit that truck."
Perhaps the thought pervaded the car, grew, surrounded and engulfed Tyler like a warm blanket, because he sped up. The accelerator notched past fifty, fifty-five, sixty. The end of the truck grew large, filling his view. More stones bounded up across the hood and across the windshield. He heard some underneath his car, slapping at the underside like angry bees.
The chains on the back of the truck slapped at the hood. He heard the squeal of metal on metal, saw the paint chip away from the hood. All the driver had to do was stop. Tyler leaned over the steering wheel, inches from the windshield. He could feel the cold radiating off of it. He followed some rocks with his eyes as they bounded over the car, past it, and disappeared across the tar.
The song had ended and now only radio silence came out of the speakers. Tyler felt the despair slipping away. He clung to it like a scared child does to its mother. But it moved away from him, pushing him back with a gentle, but firm hand. He hit a pothole hard and his forehead collided with the windshield. His instinct took over and he pressed on the brakes, eyes squinted shut. Pain flared like brilliant light in the center of his head. He turned his head to the right, and the car went with him.
He bounded over a curb, across a parking lot, and connected with a guard rail. Beyond the rail was the river which, at this time of day, was high tide. He looked out across the flowing water, some of which white-capped in the middle. Below the small star shaped and stained red crack was a large spider-webbed one. In the middle of it was a trail of dark red blood. He touched at his forehead and it came away slick.
The dump truck had stopped up the road and the driver was running towards his car. The tears did fall this time. And he found that he could not stop them even when they pulled him out of the car.
But he wasn't sure why he was crying.
He didn't stop. Tyler rubbed until he felt the skin raw and then broken. He took his hand away, and saw a small red stain over the crack. He turned the hand over, looked at the finger. A diagonal slash welled blood, beaded, then dropped onto his lap.
Maybe it was the song on the radio, something about being in the arms of angels, but he felt the despair deepen. It burrowed into his heart, made his head ache. Tears, surprising him, pricked the corners of his eyes. Like a man in a daze, he pulled the thumb to him and sucked. He imagined someone looking in on his car, seeing a man, dark hair, glasses, sucking on his them while a massive orange dump truck bounced in front of him kicking up stones.
Someone actually did notice this and thought, "If that guy doesn't slow down, he's doing to hit that truck."
Perhaps the thought pervaded the car, grew, surrounded and engulfed Tyler like a warm blanket, because he sped up. The accelerator notched past fifty, fifty-five, sixty. The end of the truck grew large, filling his view. More stones bounded up across the hood and across the windshield. He heard some underneath his car, slapping at the underside like angry bees.
The chains on the back of the truck slapped at the hood. He heard the squeal of metal on metal, saw the paint chip away from the hood. All the driver had to do was stop. Tyler leaned over the steering wheel, inches from the windshield. He could feel the cold radiating off of it. He followed some rocks with his eyes as they bounded over the car, past it, and disappeared across the tar.
The song had ended and now only radio silence came out of the speakers. Tyler felt the despair slipping away. He clung to it like a scared child does to its mother. But it moved away from him, pushing him back with a gentle, but firm hand. He hit a pothole hard and his forehead collided with the windshield. His instinct took over and he pressed on the brakes, eyes squinted shut. Pain flared like brilliant light in the center of his head. He turned his head to the right, and the car went with him.
He bounded over a curb, across a parking lot, and connected with a guard rail. Beyond the rail was the river which, at this time of day, was high tide. He looked out across the flowing water, some of which white-capped in the middle. Below the small star shaped and stained red crack was a large spider-webbed one. In the middle of it was a trail of dark red blood. He touched at his forehead and it came away slick.
The dump truck had stopped up the road and the driver was running towards his car. The tears did fall this time. And he found that he could not stop them even when they pulled him out of the car.
But he wasn't sure why he was crying.