Untitled 1: Narrative, Poem

JAN. 4, 2004
It was fine when I was just driving. I love the way it feels to push the gas pedal all the way to the floor. You have to point your toe to do it, almost like a ballet. And there I was, feet dancing on the accelerator, flying down a gravel road at 85 mph, completely blank.
I was choking back tears as I watched the fields of grain float past me in the rearview. My thoughts seemed stuck on repeat.
This is your brain.
This is your brain on drugs.
I rolled down the window. I was going too fast, because the still air pounded at my chest like a seldgehammer, stealing my breath. Trapped, I yielded my thoughts to the wind, watching them flutter noiselessly out the window and drop, lifeless, to the pavement behind my car.
The road was the one I used to drive with Trace and TJ, before the accident and before TJ fell asleep. He was so perfect, TJ was. Even dead and lying in his cheap casket, he was perfect and I wished i didn't miss him so much.
And then there was Trace.
I whispered his name aloud, tracing my finger in the air. His memory was nothing to me now, nearly forgotten, like some little kid's Sunday School drawing stuck between the pages of a dusty Bible.
What Sunday School taught me is that when you die you become an angel, living with Jesus in heaven. Angels are these invisible guardians of human life, these beings that follow and protect you all of the time.
Trace and TJ, they were angels.
In every sense of the word.
And what I wish for right now is to be invisible like them, to be free of everything, to be in heaven. I want to be an angel. I want to protect other people.
The way I couldn't protect them.
I can feel the rage building up in my throat. There is a sick taste I know means anger, and I wish that I was away from this endless road, this useless life.
I concentrate hard on my hands and I feel them disappear. The wheel sways back and forth, dancing alone, the gas pedal slipping away from my tired feet, the whirr and click of my engine forming a symphony to accompany this lonely ballet. The stage is empty now; there's no dancer to tame these violent notes. My car is hurtling through the air, whining and shaking and begging to rest. But I am not in control. I am pure and angelic, floating above the car with TJ and Trace, smiling, watching as my beautiful blue-black Saturn flies desperately into the eight-foot ditch. Tears stream down my face; I'm breathing hard as it flies end over end and finally comes to rest in a foot of water.
So this is what death feels like.
It's ripping my entire body apart, starting at the joints and stretching-- stretching until I can't think about anything exceot the pain. The lights go down, and a faint roar from the audience signals the grand finale of this wretched ballet.
And suddenly the sound of a car horn distracts me from dying.
I am inching my way toward North Plains, so slowly the red Maxima behind me is honking and trying to squeeze by. I take a deep, shuddering gasp, breathing my soul back into my body, stepping on the gas and half expecting my invisible foot to falter.
And there it is again, that perfect feeling of ballet dancing, and for one beautiful moment I am totally in control, and I am away, and I am driving.



FEB. 2003
The rearview mirror reflects her fear
Hidden deep in sky blue eyes
And, closer than it may appear,
She lets it take the wheel and drive.

Turn of the key, the engine screams
Now it seems to match her head
In the spotlight of her headlight beams
She's frozen, all emotions dead.

The radio spits another line
Through broken speakers, thoughts unclear
The words, unheard, reach down inside
Swimming through her-- static-- fear.

The light ahead is liquid scarlet
Pouring through the filthy glass
She realizes she won't avoid it
Useless brakes can hear the crash.

The metal trap leaves no escape
Somberly beckons limb for limb
She struggles not to fight her fate
This time, she'll never fear again.