Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns, I borrow.
Hands tremble.
Count the steps.
Drop the keys twice.
Stop. Pause. Take in my surroundings. Cool December air. Setting sun's blinding light. Cigar smoke trailing from the neighbor's porch.
All of this. All at once.
This is the moment; whether I want it to be or not, this is what I'll remember years from now.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Open the door, get in, sit for a moment. Put the key in ignition. Grip the steering wheel so tight my cracked knuckles bleed.
What to do, what to do. Have I forgotten how to drive?
Every inch of the truck is foreign.
It's been mine for a long time—my keychain on the keys, my dirt on the floor, my truck, but today it isn't mine. Today it's Dad's and sitting in the driver's seat is wrong.
I shouldn't be here. I should be in the passenger seat, seven years old, awaiting my first hunting trip. Or fifteen, standing next to the hood, watching Dad fix up the engine before he teaches me how to drive.
What I wouldn't give to relive one memory instead of reality now...
Nineteen and one month shy of kissing my teenage years goodbye, I wonder how I got from point A to B—how I went from Darrel Shayne Curtis Jr. to the only Darrel Shayne Curtis.
An hour ago I ate leftover spaghetti from the fridge, the last meal Mom would ever make me.
Fifty minutes ago Officer Peterson showed up. I stared at his name badge as he spoke and the words still ring crystal clear. Didn't make it. Passed on. Call it what you will, Officer Peterson, my folks are still dead.
A half hour ago he made me identify the bodies.
Twenty minutes ago he drove me back home.
Ten minutes ago I threw up not once but multiple times.
Five minutes ago I told myself to man up and be an adult about it regardless of how upset I am.
And now here I sit, unable to process a single fucking thing. The images flash through my head: Dad's bone jutting out of his arm, Mom's snapped neck. Like a bad dream. Like a horror film. Blood everywhere. Their station wagon totaled beyond recognition.
Head on collision; that's why they called it.
Head on collision.
I try not the think about it, I try not to think period, but still … thoughts derail. Stuck in some state between shock and denial, I can't pull myself together.
This feeling reminds me of the time my football team almost took state; the anticipation and disappointment wrapped up in that split second has returned. It's the same on edge, not knowing what's going to happen next feeling; only this time it's worse. It multiples and never ends.
All I need is a thought free second to catch my breath, but panic invades any void. Officer Peterson's words loop over and over again: I'm sorry for your loss. I'm sorry for your loss. Is that what they say to every next of kin? Such cold, impersonal words...
I think about it. I think about a lot of things. I think about that jackass going home to hug his wife and kids, saying his I love you's and thanking God he's so blessed. Thanking God he isn't that sorry kid… That sorry kid is me.
What a jerk, what an asshole, but it makes no difference hating him.
The man didn't cause the accident; some old lady did, and I can be pissed at her for the rest of eternity, but there'll never been any retribution.
She's dead too, and he's just the messenger.
You can't hate the messenger.
Soon I'll be the messenger myself when I pick Soda up from work and Pony, track.
Somehow, some way, I have to tell them, but first I have to drive.
I have to drive Dad's truck.
I've never been so afraid.
Thanks for reading this depressing little story...
I have some ideas, so this might evolve into a two or three shot later, but for now I'll call it a oneshot.
If you're so inclined, reviews would be uh-maz-ing. :)