A difficult subject to write about, but the striking artwork pulled me in. Despite the subject matter, I don’t feel like I went too far, got too dark, for better or worse.
Thanks for reading.
Artwork by Hetian Duan
https://www.artstation.com/artwork/XB00mD
DISCLAIMER: This work has not been edited beyond what was done in the video. The goal is to capture a story in a short amount of time and keep it as raw as possible.
The Story
Rain hit the windshield like bullets. Ben spun the stereo’s volume knob to drown it out. When that didn’t work, he punched the gas pedal. The engine revved, and for a mile or two, it worked. Fuzzy guitars and an overzealous ’94 Ford Taurus engine were bliss. White noise as white as his thoughts.
He tore open a cigarette pack with his teeth, ran it under his nose before fishing one out with dry lips. The paper and filter tasted like a factory floor, and he knew what that tasted like, so he turned it around and chewed the other end. Most of the tobacco was on his tongue before he realized what the fuck he was doing, and he spit it out, holding the wheel with a knee while he scraped the crumbs off.
He pulled to the side of the road and rolled down his window, opened his mouth to the rain. It didn’t wash away the taste, and the freezing air brought a shiver. He patted the passenger seat for his jacket, the backseat, tried the dome light to get a better view, but it was dead. The vanity light, however, worked like brand new. The mirror was covered by a photo. He slammed it closed and kneaded his eye sockets, feeling the orbs that were so squishy and vulnerable, he wondered how he had managed to keep both of them his entire life.
He pushed harder. Embers strobed. Fingers probed a little further, unearthing a well of tears. He put the car into drive and blinked his way back onto the highway.
Snow hit the windshield like ash. He wished he knew where the fire was, because he was still cold, but rolled up his sleeves to the elbow out of habit, because he hated anything touching his wrists. Goosebumps rose on them despite their hairlessness.
He noticed the trees for the first time on the drive, the moon breaking through the sky enough to reveal a road that was straighter than he would have liked. The trees looked at him when he looked away, brandishing their trunks of unbreakable steel.
The headlights caught the eyes of a fox, and he slammed on the breaks, waterplaned nearly a full three-sixty, facing him back the way he had come. No cars. Still. Why no fucking cars? Because it wasn’t their job, that’s why.
He stepped out into the cold to look for the fox. Of course it was gone. The road was black. The white wouldn’t win. It was a pile of slush, a failure, given one goddamn job, just one, and it couldn’t do that right, even with the entire sky in its service.
Ben turned the car off and stood on the road with his arms stretched wide. He didn’t have eyes like a fox, and even if he did, he could have closed them when the time was right.
The damp air made his sleeve sag to his wrist. He rolled it up again, and when he put his hands in his pockets, the other one came down. He kicked a speedbump because it was the only thing around. It tumbled across the road, flashed.
Ben’s heart drummed. His scalp tingled. His mouth went dry. He looked down the road both ways. Nothing. He jumped on the hood of the car, looked again. An empty road. He climbed to the roof, slipped until the rack fastened there caught his ankle, thought of where he might be if it wasn’t there. It wouldn’t have been if she hadn’t wanted one. Bikes, kayaks, IKEA runs. She had the whole fucking thing planned out, until–
Hail hit Ben like river rocks. He slid down the windshield on his ass and rolled down the hood to land on all fours facing the Taurus’s grille. He curled into a ball, tucking his head in and covering it with his hands. He exhaled, spit out a pathetic sound that was half-sob, half-whimper.
He was inside the car, both hands on the wheel to keep his sleeves around his elbows, interior lights blazing. He looked up to see himself. The visor must have opened when his clumsy ass was dancing on the roof. The left turn signal light spotlit his lap, where the photo lay, its back up. The words were upside down, but he knew what they said, and that was enough for him. He slipped it back behind the visor, where it was probably at least a little warmer, and turned the ignition.
The car idled there for some time. The gas gauge twitched just above the E. He pulled back onto the highway, keeping the car at a fuel-efficient speed, as if he knew what the hell that was. Lightning flashed. Wait. That wasn’t it. Electricity zipped down a sagging, horizontal line.
Ben’s headlights found two more eyes. In the middle of the road, lying down, where he should be. The doe craned her neck, mewled a plea for him to finish what someone else started, but he didn’t, couldn’t. Instead, he turned clear of it, so wide his left wheels went off the road, spinning in mud.
He beat the steering wheel, beat his head, his thighs, which made his sleeves fall. Outside, he pushed, fell face first into the mud, tried to breath it, was too much of a coward for that, and stumbled back into the car.
Ben wanted to sleep, but the lights wouldn’t let him, nor the dried mud in his eyes. Wide open was how they had to be. They showed him a full tank and a speedometer that went to 180.
He eased the gas pedal down. The car jerked onto the road. Once he got a handle on it, he sped up, no longer caring about straight roads. Faster.
The reflection of two eyes hit Ben like lightning.
Faster.
As white as his thoughts. He floored it, and smiled when he saw a rolled up shirtsleeve, exposing a hairless wrist.
Leave a Reply