I'm Late

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I'm late.
My car stalled.
I'm late.
I stop at every red light.
My draft is due to my editor in two hours.
I'm late.
I'm never going to make it.
Forty miles per hour.
Fifty.
Sixty.
I'm late.
I'll never make it.
I'm late.
Seventy.
A red light.
I slam on the breaks.
Too late.
The car in back of mine slams into me, and my car hits the car in front of me.
I’m in pain.
The car’s smashed. I smell blood. I hear nothing.
I’m bleeding.
I see red around me.
I feel the sharpness of cuts and breaks in my body.
It hurts.
My breaths come in ragged gasps.
I'm dying.
My eyes are tired; they're closing on their own.
I'm dying.
It's hard to breathe.
It hurts to move.
I stop breathing.
I'm dying.
I say a silent goodbye to my wife.
I wish her happiness.
I love you.
I say a goodbye to the life she carries inside her, the child I will never see.
I'm dying.
I think about her face, my child’s face, and I close my eyes.
I'm dead.





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