The Cursed Memory

The Cursed Memory

It was late, the kind of late where the world feels empty. The road ahead was well known to everyone; it was the border between two municipalities. During the day, a hectic stretch of road lined with eager merchants, both big and small. My hands rested on the wheel of my ’72 Cortina, the engine humming as Gary Numan’s song “Cars” blasted away with far too much bass on the old a.m. radio.

We weren’t racing, well, at least not at first. It is the story I tell myself to keep my sanity. At least, that’s what I told myself through the years, but in the days of our youth, every mile might be a dare, and one quiet moonless night it became a deadly dare.

He was on the Honda, leaning forward into the wind like it would carry him forever. There was something different about him that night; maybe he thought the night belonged to him. Maybe it did, right up until the end.

As we crested the hill and dropped onto the flat stretch that marked the line between two police jurisdictions, my eyes flicked to the speedometer, 130, no 140. We waved to me like I was standing still, an arrogant changer, I could not let pass. As the song “Born to be Wild” came across the airwaves, my pedal was pushed to the floor. Red light ahead, his motorcycle drifted slightly as he blew through it. I crossed myself as my car seemed to fly through the light. I noticed I was accelerating past 150, 160, and still the old Cortina wanted to go faster and faster.

As my vehicle topped over 200 kph, I suddenly realized this was utter madness, my foot eased off the pedal a little, then a lot. I would admit a motorcycle might be faster than a 1972 Ford Cortina, at least tonight. The motorcycle did not slow as I was slowing and pulled far ahead of me.

It was broken, jagged, a blade of steel tucked out of a center guard rail, glinting faintly in the dark, waiting like a demon in the shadows. He didn’t see it.

I didn’t see it. Not until it was too late.

The front wheel hit first. The sound was a knife through the night—screeching rubber, screaming brakes. The bike jerked hard left, then snapped right. Or maybe it was the other way. The moment fractured, pieces slipping through my memory.

Metal twisting, sparks burst like tiny meteors, bouncing off the blacktop and vanishing into the dark. A shard of rail shot across the asphalt, skittering toward the glow of the all-night gas station. A long black skid mark burned itself into the road, smoke curling up, thick and bitter. Suddenly, it seemed like the world became a slow-motion scene in a picture show. The headlight spun in a dizzy arc, the chrome flashed once in the moonlight the rider was tossed off the motorcycle like a broken, discarded rag doll.

The Cortina was still rolling forward when I threw the door open and leapt out. The engine still idled, replaced by the strange, hollow silence of shock. I’d been no more than two minutes behind him, two minutes, and yet it felt like decades.

I ran, or thought I did, but every step was heavy, as if my shoes had been cast in cement. The world moved thick and slow. The streetlights stretched unnaturally long across the oil and petrol-soaked pavement, bending into shadows that seemed to breathe.

When I reached him, time shattered into fragments and then stopped; all I could hear at that moment was the pounding of my own heart. The air thickened, sound drained away, and the world became a living nightmare. I wish I could just wake up. His helmet was split clean down the middle like some cruel fruit, and through that jagged wound I saw his chest rise and fall—barely, like a whisper that might vanish if I blinked.

His eyes flickered once, his body shuddered, and then the colours came alive. Blood and fuel bled together on the pavement, twisting in the streetlight, rippling like oily serpents. The smell was sharp—metal, gasoline, rain—an intoxicating poison that made the air feel heavier in my lungs.

Warmth seeped between my fingers. Slow. Relentless. The road beneath us seemed to shift, to breathe, its black mouth stretching wider with each heartbeat, threatening to swallow us whole. I knew, I knew he was dying—the bent, unnatural angles of his body told me as much as the river of blood pooling beneath him. My mind screamed first-aid protocols, but my hands stayed locked in place, holding him as if I let go, he’d slip into whatever the waiting hands of Death.

His eyes opened. Just for a heartbeat. Blood bubbled at his lips as he fought for air, and then—slow, impossibly slow—came the words.

“Guess… time to… see Jesus.”

Each syllable dragged through the air like they were trying to escape the pull of eternity. And when the last one left his lips, I knew the moment had already taken him.

I don’t remember the distant sounds of sirens.

I don’t remember the gas station attendant running toward us, or the delivery truck driver who rushed toward my side.

I just remember the weight, not his body—though he was heavy—but the weight of the moment. It settled into my shoulders, burrowed into my soul and has never fully left.

Two firefighters appeared like ghostly figures in a bloody horror story. One looked over my friend, whose body was now draped like a blanket over my own.

“He’s. Dead son, are you hurt?” said one of the firefighters as police from both municipalities arrived.

I never spoke to them; they eventually pulled me away.

They guided me toward the back door of the ambulance, the paramedic pressing a damp cloth into my hands. The blood was tacky now, darkening in the creases of my skin. Two police officers moved in, voices clipped, notepads ready. Questions came hard and fast, precise—but I gave them almost nothing. Was it shock? Refusal? I couldn’t tell, and neither could they.

As the paramedics and officers debated my state, I simply… drifted away. My feet carried me away from the flashing lights, the twisted metal, and the silent body left behind. The next thing I knew, I was behind the wheel, the Cortina creeping through the night. The steering wheel was sticky beneath my hands, the seat beneath me soaked. My blood. Or His blood I did not know.

I don’t remember the drive, only the moment I stood pounding on a familiar door until my knuckles ached. When it opened, his father and brother stood there, faces pale in the thin porch light. My voice cracked as I tried to explain, but all that came out was, “There’s been an accident… I’m so sorry… Dale’s with Jesus now.”

The night swallowed me again as I made the final stretch home. Between four and five a.m., the world began to stir. Birds sang tentative notes as the black sky paled toward morning. My den mother was awake, waiting. The words dissolved as soon as I saw her. I broke. She held me, unflinching, her arms warm even as the blood smeared her clothing.

Even now, I still feel it—warm, thick, oozing between my fingers. I still see his face in the darkness—not accusing, not forgiving, just there.

And when a serious auto accident in 2021 struck me down, it was as if some cruel, divine hand reached into my skull and tore open the vault of memory, returning this night to me in full—as if to punish me for the sins of my youth.

The End

Authors Notes

This story is based on a poem of the same name I wrote two months ago. It is very much based on a true story. Names and certain information withheld.

Yes, speed can kill and rob the lives of people of all ages, races, religions and political beliefs.

Thank you, feel free to comment, to follow my writings or leave a small tip.

Cheers

Bruce Curle