Blood
and Asphalt
The sky
is black and speckled with thousands of gleaming stars that sparkle
like diamonds. The air is crisp and silent with a slight chill, like
Death's fingertips inching up your back. There's a stretch of black
with four perpendicular lines, two yellow tracing the spine of the
road and two white on the outer-sides. Other than the cobalt neon
glow from a gas station sign and one lone sepia toned street lamp,
this particular stretch of Highway 108 is dim and dingy. There is a
hum from the tires that reverberates in the cabin of a silver Jeep
Cherokee, barely audible over the soft purr of the engine. The Jeep
glides through the brisk night air like a gleaming arrow. In the
backseat there is a boy, he is not quite a teenager. His head lolls
like a pendulum as he fades in and out of consciousness from the long
drive home.
Standing
in the shadows, the silhouette of a young woman waits silently and
still like a gargoyle. She is dressed in dark clothing, as black as
the night that is swallowing her. There is a thumping in her ears
like that of a rhythmic drum as her heart palpitates. She is waiting
for someone to come along, though she does not know when they will
arrive. The girl's mind is racing, flipping through thoughts like
that of a television set with a neurotic child rapidly flipping
through channels as if to reach the end of them. She is most likely
nervous and scared, for she has waited a long time for this person to
come along. She hears the rumble of a vehicle creeping down the road
and she tenses, hesitant to come out of the darkness. The automobile
rushes past her, she exhales, breathing heavily and heart pounding.
She watches the car continue down the road while the taillights cast
a crimson hue upon her face, illuminating wet trails under her eyes.
Another vehicle begins down the road, it's headlights casting out
like the light at the end of a dark tunnel. She begins to step out of
the shadows.
The
headlights aim down the road like cross-hairs, illuminating trees and
signs, reminding the young boy he is almost home. He feels anxious,
like a puppy waiting to greet his master. The boy begins to fidget,
tapping his fingertips on his knee. He looks to the window on his
right and sees that it has a frosty glaze and reaches up and places
his hand on the glass. The window is cold and hard yet smooth. He
swipes his hand across it and feels the moisture build up underneath
his palm. The boy pulls his hand away and sees the wet trace that is
left behind as the water runs down his forearm. A lulling sound from
the drivers seat catches his attention and he snaps his head to the
left like a cat that heard its prey rustling. “Wake up. We're home
Erik,” said the boy's mother. He shuffles slightly to the left to
peek between the seats and through the windshield to look at what the
headlights gazed upon. “Owens Donuts” a sign reads, in it's old
faded white and brown paint scheme. The paint was cracked and
peeling, like that of fresh ashes ready to take flight in a soft
breeze. He now knows for certain that he is home and back in Sierra
Village. The boy shakes off any sleepiness that he had as the car
veered left off of the highway and down the long driveway.
The car
pulls into the driveway and gives a quiet sputter as the engine is
shut off. The headlights click off and the world seems to go black,
as if a blanket was pulled over their faces. A glimmer of light
clicks on like a beacon, lighting up the stairs to the front door.
The boy, his mother, and step-father step out of the vehicle and give
a quick stretch and yawn similar to that of a tired pride of lions.
The boy closes the car door and begins walking towards the stairway.
A high pitched screeching permeates the cold night air and the family
falters mid-stride and quickly looks in the direction of the noise as
it echoes through the trees. “Probably just a deer in the road,”
the boy thinks to himself and shrugs, continuing towards the house.
The old dull brown wooden boards creak under the thumps of their
steps. There's a light jingling sound as the mother fumbles for the
correct key and slides it into the lock. The sound of half a dozen
quiet clicks and the door is open. The inside of the house is chilly
and the air seems stale. The boy turns to the right and steps into
his room and upon entering he hears a ringing.
The
ringing of the phone is ended abruptly as the boys mother picks up
the receiver. “It's an awfully quiet phone call,” the boy says to
himself while realizing the entire house is void of sound. He steps
out of his room and sees his mother hovered over the phone and
accompanied by his stepfather. The entire universe seems inaudible
and his mother need not say a word to the boy. The look alone on his
mothers soft face tells all that words cannot. The child knows
something terrible has happened, “but what?” he asks himself. The
mother hangs up the phone and grabs the boy by the hand and the
family rushes outside and up the driveway. The boy cannot hear over
his panting breaths as he runs alongside his mother all the while
still pondering as to what happened. They near the highway and the
boy sees light all around, some stationary and others flashing. A
blue light illuminates a plethora of vehicles and a red follows
showing groups of people scattered about like weeds in an unkempt
garden. Under the yellowish street lamp he sees something wet
trailing along the road. This liquid is dark, darker than muddy water
but not as dark as oil. This particular fluid is crimson and it's
moving.
The
trail of dark red leads the child’s eyes right up to a pair of
glowing eyes that are casting their gaze upon a young girl on the
ground. It's the boys friend, his very dear and closest friend
Jennifer. She lays on the street like a rag-doll that some poor child
got bored with and threw in the corner. Her beautiful chestnut hair
is matted with red. There is an aura of steam surrounding her and
glowing in the lamps light. The boy is void of all senses accept
sight. He is no longer cold from the night nor can he hear the
chatter of voices. He is transfixed on what lay in the middle of that
lonely street. He is unsure of what emotions to feel. He only stands
there by his mother feeling numb and cold, but not by the grace of
the weather. His sharp little blue eyes just stare ahead, he doesn't
cry because his eyes deceive him, or so he believes. He watches
everything, up until the point she is loaded into the ambulance. The
family walks back in silence in the company of darkness. They enter
their home and the boys mother hugs and kisses him good night. She is
concerned from the look in her eyes. The boy crawls into his cold bed
and lays in the darkness. I cry myself to sleep, for I know she will
not live.
Note:
This is
the second time I have ever wrote about this event in my life. It is
the single most defining moment in my life. It shook me to the core
and caused me to question everything I had learned about God and
religion. It made me come to terms at an early, innocent age that
death is as much a part of life as anything. It made me numb to
death, for I cannot bring myself to cry when a family member or
friend dies. Jennifer Lynn Makules was my closest friend and first
“girlfriend” whom I loved very much. She was on life support for
three days and died in October of 1997. I left out the driver of the
vehicle for a reason. He drove a blue minivan and was in complete
shock. The driver had not been drinking at all. I cannot begin to
imagine through his eyes what it would've looked like, because I’ve
seen that point-of-view in dreams and it disturbs me. Nobody knew
that this was a suicide. A week after she died I later learned that
she had blatantly told her friends she was going to walk out into the
middle of the street. Nobody did a thing to try to prevent her. From
that moment forward I have been misanthropic towards humanity. She
was in dire need of help and an escape. Only this escape was
permanent.
Hi my name is Caree Jeanne. I was Jennifer's best friend and she was my foster sister for quite some time. We knew each other since we were 3 years old. I don't know you but I remember one of the last phone calls her and I had. I believe she was waiting for you. She said she had to go because you just arrived on a Greyhound. She cared about you very much. Was very excited to see you on that day.
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