Only miles to go

I shake my head to clear it as the world starts to slide into gray. I won't do to fail now, not when I'm so close. I rub the sweat out of my eyes with the back of my hand and try to focus on the road as it shimmers and weaves before me. I feel every bump stab through the wound in my belly, not doing as much to keep me conscious as I'd like.

As I leave the warehouse behind, the ashes of that part of my life still cooling, I think I feel something like hope, or maybe confidence in a plan is closer to it. Not everything went exactly right (getting gutshot wasn't something I was counting on), but I'm free and clear and I've got enough gas to get to her and get away clean. Well, mostly clean.

I ease my hand away from the wound in my belly and see the blood is still pouring out pretty good, with no signs of stopping. I guess that's a good sign, means I've still got plenty of it left. That's me, though: ever the optimist. Silver linings and all that.

The car shudders along as it drifts over a rumble strip and I cringe as the vibration tears through me. I yank the car back into my lane and put my eyes back on the road. It'd just figure: not a soul for miles and I'd manage to get into a wreck. And on the most important day of my life, too.

That's not true. Important, yes. Very important, yes. Not the most important. That begs the question though, what is? I know the easy answer, the obvious one, but then I always do. I don't think it's the right one. The day we met. Naturally. That's the clear choice. That's what you're supposed to say. But I don't think the answer to a question like this one is supposed to be a choice. It's supposed to present itself to you if you've got the eyes to see it. It's supposed to slide up into your consciousness and remind you of that day, that moment, when everything changed. It's supposed to make itself known, and it's not for you to choose.

It's the day I saw her smile.

Not like that, I mean. She's always smiling. Everyone's seen it. I saw it before we ever met. But not that one.

There's another smile, a secret smile, that I like to think I know what it means. It's slower, quieter. It doesn't blow up across her face and make her eyes go wide. It's not a smile for anyone else. It's not even for me.

So that's the day. I can feel the sunlight on my face, making me squint one eye, but I can still see her, not really facing me, looking away, and I can see it start. I don't even know what I said, but I see it start, and I see that smile spread across her face, slow, and I know it, I just know it: Nothing's ever going to be the same again.

The engine coughs and sputters, shaking me out of my reverie, and I feel the cold grip of fear reaching into me, right through the hole in my gut, spreading across my insides and sliding up into my heart. Not now, I think. Not when I'm so close. Only miles to go. The hard part's done. Just keep moving and it'll all be okay.

The car rumbles and I don't even mind the pain this time because after a moment the engine settles down and runs smooth again. I breathe again, but I don't dare relax. My eyes are still wide, flying across the gauges as I try to blink away the fresh panic sweat. I breathe shallow, scared even to move lest I do something to upset the vehicle and be forced to listen to it cough and die, rolling slowly and quietly to a stop on this deserted stretch of road, the only sound the crunch of the tires and my own labored breathing. I close my eyes, desperate, for a moment, realizing I've done it again, my imagination has run away with me and I've scared myself beyond reasoning, beyond reality, and my abject terror will certainly drag me down to despair if I allow it.

I breathe shallowly and put a little more pressure on the gas pedal, willing to exchange a little caution for haste. I keep my eyes on the road, flicking them here and there on the dash to check the gauges. After a while I'm able to shift my weight in the seat and breathe a little easier. The engine purrs and the wind whistles outside the windows and everything's going to be okay again.

The miles roll past, the dark and desolate landscape I'm fleeing through illuminated here and there by shafts of sunlight punching through the thick clouds above. The song of the tires on the road is hypnotic, singing me to sleep, and I want so badly to rest, if only for a moment. I feel the weakness prowling through my mind, through my heart, and I think myself already too weak to fight it. I feel my head start to droop, my eyes begin to go dark, as the thrumming of my pulse in my ears grows slower, and quieter.

You looked up at me and I lost myself in your eyes. I never could drag myself out. I suppose I didn't want to. I told myself I was strong enough, smart enough, to do anything in the world, and I told you that I'd do anything in the world for you.

But then I didn't.

I stumbled, and fell, and after a while I didn't see that smile anymore. Not even the big one, the public one. The one for Joe on the street. The one for anyone because that's just who you are. Instead I saw sidelong glances. The back of your head. Half-asleep whispers that weren't for my ears to hear.

But I can fix it. I can make everything right. I'll prove it to you.

I drag myself up out of the darkness, forcing my eyes to open and focus on the road again. Only miles to go.

The engine coughs and the car shudders and suddenly everything goes quiet and my worst fears come slithering out of the pits and crawl through my mind. I steer the car off the road into the dust on the shoulder, cursing it all the while.

We grind to a stop and the thick clouds of dust thrown up by our passing billow around us, mocking our plight by rolling on down the road ahead of us.

I try the ignition over and again, my efforts greeted by silence: not even a whine, no sign that the car is willing to struggle through this with me. I stomp on the gas and pound on the steering wheel, splitting my wound open anew, trying to bully this machine into compliance, to bend it to my will, but it remains silent and cold.

I lean back and lay my head on the headrest, feeling despair not for the first time, but finally recognizing it, maybe, admitting it. Suddenly I'm face-to-face with the reality that it's not going to be okay again, and that's not a realization I can ignore any longer.

I ease myself out of the car and crunch through the dust and gravel, opening the hood and staring down at the engine as though I know what I'm looking at, or for. The fact is, I'm as lost as I ever was.

I hold the hood open with one hand and rest my head against my wrist, surprised for a moment at how cold my own flesh has grown. I close my eyes and I'm there behind you, whispering something into your ear, through your hair, something that makes you smile that secret smile again, and I can tell without even seeing your face. I can feel it, my arms around you, and everything right in the world.

I collapse in the dirt, kicking up little whirlwinds and dust devils, dirty little storms that twirl around me and are destroyed by the cough forced from my lungs. I don't even get to die on my back, the last thing I see a darkening sky overhead.

As my world grows dim and cold, my last gasp becomes a goodbye, a whispered prayer carried off on the wind, I hope, to her ear.

But she isn't listening.



18 September 2015