The Green Light at the End of the Tunnel

Stoplights have always scared me, even before I started driving. Eventually, a stoplight will kill me.

When I was young—I can’t say when for certain, but probably during elementary school—I had a vision, or a dream, about my own death. It was so vivid to me then. I kept my premonition hidden for a couple days; however, like any kid, the fact I knew something so special had me giddy, so I broke and let my parents in on the secret. When I ran home from school, out of breath and bearing the largest grin, they expected something childish, maybe someone brought their puppy to school, or that I had a new crush. Instead, I went on for an hour and a half, describing every detail of the surroundings and how it felt to die.

Of course, that was nearly three decades ago. Despite my inquisition as I grew older, they could not remember any specifics, just facts I already knew: for example, I am alone in the car when I die. I don’t blame them. I would not have taken myself seriously either, just a boy and his wild imagination. Somewhere in a box in my parent’s basement, there are childhood drawings by me depicting the scene. These are not much use either—my young hand, sketching square cars and stick figures, could never capture what my mind saw so clearly.

I, myself, hardly remember the original vision. Not long after telling my parents and drawing a few pictures, my mind moved on to other playthings—dinosaurs, sports, video games, the stuff other kids enjoyed. Unsurprisingly, my classmates did not share in my obsession with prophecy, and I couldn’t resist the need to fit in. But all was not forgotten. It was as though someone had taken the film reel depicting my demise and chopped it at random intervals. Then, the mystery cinematographer took the scraps and scattered them into the winds of time, leaving me with the most essential details: intersection, car, death. Whether my initial vision had been created within me—the remnant of an imagination game or a vivid dream—or given to me by some greater force, it became a very real memory, and a growing memory at that.

Despite hints of those film scraps cropping up with puberty, my true reawakening began when I drove a car for the first time. I was with my older brother (who had never been privy to my fate) in a grocery store parking lot. He had begrudgingly accepted the task of pre-driver’s ed tutor when my parents declared the extra practice would do me good, except they were too busy with work to take on the job themselves. Being himself, my brother tossed me the keys and told me to have at it—meanwhile, he would observe from a position of plausible deniability outside the car. I was not afraid to drive. For one, the parking lot was almost empty. But when I placed my hands on the steering wheel, a sense of supreme comfort overcame me, like I had driven a million times before.

In fact, I had. A fragment of a recurring dream suddenly came into focus. It wasn’t déjà vu; it wasn’t coincidence. It was a few frames of the movie long kept from me. And like that, I was a natural. Hell, I even parallel parked on instinct, shocking my parents and future driving instructors alike.

That is how the scraps operate. More than just remembering something, it is like unlocking a part of myself. Imagine this: pretend you speak Spanish, and one day, a word you know but hadn’t thought about in a long time pops into your head. You say to yourself: “Oh yea, I forgot I knew that word.” Now, compare that with waking up one morning to find you’re fluent in Spanish despite never taking a class or even having heard of Spanish before. The latter example is a film scrap.

But they’re not always positive—I know how I die, after all. My first and most lasting negative experience occurred on my first solo drive. Sent by my parents to pick up muffins from the local grocery store, I passed through my neighborhood and through the first intersection without a hitch—the light was green. However, at the second intersection, everything went wrong. As I approached, the stoplight went yellow. I applied a growing pressure to the break, just as I had been taught in driver’s ed, just as I had known before my first lesson. A perfect, gliding stop. Red light. Awareness coursed down my spine as though I had fallen hard onto my back. The seat next to me was empty. It had been for the past few minutes—I knew I left my house alone—but, now, a ghostly weight seemed to float there.

If you can believe it, I am not superstitious. My vision and the film scraps follow scientific regularity. They are, in my opinion, just as real as the chair you’re sitting in or the desk at which I write. I don’t believe in the dead retroactively manifesting themselves to spook or guide the living. However, the reverse is possible: the to-be dead (a.k.a. the living) can proactively learn of their passing—my situation is proof of that.

At that red light, I sat next to my own subconscious knowledge. When I die, I am alone. Waiting at the intersection, I felt fate’s pressure mounting. Dread radiated from the passenger seat, boiling my stomach. Its contents were the first to go, and the light had not even changed yet. My heart pounded in anticipation, the kind where you know for certain the outcome is terrible and inevitable, like the failing grade on a rushed assignment or the text message spawned by a crumbling romance. Cold sweat glued me to my seat, though I knew I could not run even if I wanted to. It took every ounce of my being not to lose control of my bladder.

All was for nought. When the light changed—red to green—I lost it. The film scrap appeared in full: alone in the car, first in line at the intersection, red becomes green. I suffered from a complete mental breakdown that day. At least I had enough willpower to put the car in park, but the rest was a blur. When the bystanders, and police, and paramedics, and my family peered through the car window, they saw a teenage boy caked in his own piss and vomit. They saw tears streaming down his face, nearly making his shirt as wet as his pants. They saw the boy furiously swatting at the stoplight, as though his hands, from twenty feet away, would make the light change—or better yet, disappear altogether. The worst of it, I knew, was that the scrap had ended. It was not my turn to die yet, but the scene was becoming clearer. I knew that the arrival of a green light would haunt me for the rest of my life.

They would not let me drive for a long time after that. I had to go to therapy, where they tried to tell me that I was obsessing about fabricated memories, that my fear was irrational. They forced me to lie to them, forced me to nod my head and agree: it was all imaginary. But I could never let go of my film scraps—it was impossible to deny part of myself. Try thinking about something essential about your personality, your life; how long could you pretend it’s untrue?

Eventually, I passed their inspections. The therapists declared my “wounds” healed. I was given back the privilege to drive; although, I took it slow, only going out when someone else could be in the car with me. To this day, I still prefer company when I drive—for obvious reasons. Living in the city, where I can walk most places, and having a family of my own helped, but my heart still jumps every time I am behind the wheel and I see a stoplight.

I know my time is getting closer. The scraps I have uncovered show me this: aside from my car, the intersection is empty; I am surrounded by tall buildings; I have even found the very intersection where my life ends. It’s only a few blocks from our home. I try to avoid it when possible, but I have learned not to fear it so much. The film reel, whose pieces I have gathered, cannot be changed. Whether I have every scrap or not, the movie always ends the same way. I don’t doubt that I will be shocked when I see the ending; however, I cannot prepare for it, so I cannot be afraid. It will happen by accident, most likely. I will be running late for something on an otherwise quiet day. I will pull up to the light, not even thinking about my fate. When it turns green, it will be my soul, not my car, that moves on.

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