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Ice Cold

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“It’s probably the end.”

“I know,” I reply weakly.

The intersection of Newcastle and Hurlbut; a block away from home. The world is silent and I bite on nothing so my teeth will click. I just need some sound, anything at all. My eyes begin to close, but I force myself to stay awake. My face is drenched with sweat, making me thankful that I can feel the cool air creeping in through the broken glass. A light from above shines in my eyes, and I tell myself it is only a street lamp.

“You thirsty anymore?”

I am not. Suddenly I am stone cold sober, as if the alcohol has been shocked out of my system. But of course the beer is perfectly fine in the cup holder; it taunts me. I wipe my face, slapping the thoughts out of my head. My hands return bloody; caught red handed, dumbass.

“She’s dead,” the voice calls, the tone bitter in my ears.

“I didn’t mean to,” I reply feebly, apologizing like a child. “It’s not my fault.”

“Of course not. It’s mine,” my eyes return to the cup holder.

I squint so I can see the other car. The girl, a blond teenager, rests her head against the steering wheel. I try to stretch my legs, wanting to get out of this destroyed vehicle. Maybe I’d run to her; maybe I would just run.

“Having trouble?”

“Shut up,” I spit back as I begin slapping anything around me in a desperate tantrum.

My head falls against the headrest. That light is getting brighter, blinding me. I hear sirens in the distance. I breathe deeply as I swat the beer away from me, spilling it all against the semi-crumpled door. I thought I would be fine.
I was only a block away from home.




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