In My Car

I sit in my car and I try not to die.

I force air through my nose and count backwards

from 10,

eyes closed,

slowly exhaling with each passing number.

  1. My house is alit with activity as I peel out of

the driveway.

  1. Rain pelts against moving metal,

and I can’t hear the radio.

  1. The world is a blurry photograph of

red circles and blinking colors.

  1. The radio sputters and pops, static roaring throughout

the car. The road before me

is a black streak blending with muted color.

  1. I fumble with the radio dial, and everything turns white.
  2. My brain is buzzing. Wind tears at my eyes and ears, my mouth open slightly

in shock.

  1. I see red in odd places, on windows and foreheads.
  2. Twisted images of metal melting into metal, an elbow slammed hard

against the horn,

blaring out amongst the shrieks of the

emergency trucks and the

red and white sirens of the police cars attempting,

in vain,

to,

  1. be seen through the shadowy obscurity of the

crying,

bloodshot sky.

And

  1. A phone call to my parents.

I open my eyes.

The car is clean and smells like the morning.

The sun is shining brightly through the

freshly scrubbed windows,

sweat beading on my forehead,

my mother watching me through the curtains

of our quiet house,

(as if I don’t know she’s there),

my heart thumping wildly,

like the energetic beat of a forgetful song

blasting through open car windows

on a frenzied, rainy day,

and I try, again, not to die.

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