Keep repeating to yourself. You’re going to die now. This is it. You’re looking up seeing the inside of the car trunk, and things aren’t looking so good, anymore.
The muffled voices carry a promise of what’s to come, for you, your remains.
Everything, you feel everything. The wet, the cold, the steel, the metal, the saliva, the blood. A small patch of skin uncovered, pressing into a rusty nail poking out of an old mat covered in dog hair. Empty bottles, rolling around, occasionally whacking your skull.
You’ve been closing your eyes and opening them, checking, feeling, pulsating. I’d say, you have like maybe three hours. The destination is taking some time, because there’s some people joining the group, but you don’t know that. You’re, haha, in the dark. You’re thinking about some strange things, like weird memories that seem to be growing out of the cracks in the pavement like rebellious flowers. Remember: cutting off your licorice and using it as a straw in your can of Coke.
Remember: when your friend laid down in a mud puddle for two Canadian dollars.
Remembering, like a ghost. You have no words left, and there isn’t, really, much to say. It’s sort of like the final stages of realizing how drunk you are, you’re going to stand up, and feel the soles of your feet turn into mush, goosh, oatmeal. Your knees will start to buckle and you’re finished. Some people might say, oh, yeah, a great time to think over the past, and sift through a million old memories, but when you’re this scared you lose control over the ability to do this act with reason and precision. You try to think of some good stuff. Good food, books, colors, animals. Instead, everything in your mind turns into one fucking dark panorama.
You think there might be snowflakes falling in through a hole in the trunk. But maybe not. Maybe those cold drops on your skin is your blood. Or gross old beer from those cans flying around. The thing is, its not so good to do much thinking in here, because all your thoughts feel more like time bombs. You’re saddened that you’re not going to be going out the way you wanted, in a burst of fire, combustion, explosion, preferably in a basement to propel full evisceration potential, the idea of your guts flying and splatting around and getting sliced and diced by glass, how funny, how satirical.
Something just went bunk. Someone in the back seat, banging around. But still, the cars going, somewhere. Three hours of nothing time. You ain’t missed.
