Colin Long

Laid to Rest

A snowflake creeps in through a cracked car window seeking finality in the rising and falling of the old man's cheek. Activated by the sudden frost, the old man's eyelids began to part. “Still alive, huh,” he thought as he surveyed his surroundings. Slowly, he falls into the routine he picked up the last couple of days bedridden in the car. “Check your surroundings”. He found himself once again on his back cradled in a mess of cloth, trash, and blankets in a fabric seated 2045 honda accord, the only car in the area his people found suitable for a dying man. The car bore few injuries given that it has most likely been covered in snow the past 15 years. Most things have been under snow since the crash. Next, check yourself. The old man began a series of muscle tenses with mind to notice any new pains. His head was fine, both eyes working and his neck had minimal stiffness. This is thanks to the bedding his family made him before they departed. Hands were fine, only light frostbite to worry over, now the legs. His bottom half still had no function, good. The stab wound his son had left him with was doing its job.