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 streetlamp, this 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, its 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 crosshairs, 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 driver’s seat catches his attention and he snapped 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 its 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 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 stepfather step out of the vehicle and give a quick stretch and yawn like 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 boy’s 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 mother’s 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 light follows, showing groups of people scattered about like weeds in an unkempt garden. Under the yellowish streetlamp he sees something wet trailing along the road. This liquid is dark, darker than muddy water but not as dark as oil. This 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 boy’s friend, his very dear and closest friend Jennifer. She lays on the street like a ragdoll 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 boy’s 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.

~ In loving memory of my dear friend, Jennifer L. Makules. 1983-1997~