If the Dead Could Talk | Teen Ink

If the Dead Could Talk

November 19, 2015
By WhyAlanis SILVER, Barnegat, New Jersey
WhyAlanis SILVER, Barnegat, New Jersey
7 articles 0 photos 0 comments

Favorite Quote:
"And the poets are just kids who didn't make it and never had it at all"

I’m doing 90 in a 45. My engine sputters and fights against me as the speedometer climbs. My shoes are lined with lead. The car knows what I am about to do. The trees blur together in a messy painting, as if the the artist had given up halfway through. There’s no distinction, only the vague impression of what could have been. I turn the radio on, hoping to drown out the ringing in my ears. My left speaker is blown out. A preacher screams that we are all damned to Hell. There’s probably a fat balding man spitting into a microphone; his priest robes straining with the weight of too many sins. His car is most likely a toyota with a pro-life bumper sticker. I contemplate finding and hitting it.  I switch the radio off, opting for the deafening sound of silence.

You are here, well not physically. I still haven’t taken your sweatshirt out of my car. It matches so well with the seats. You belong here. The streetlights are turning on and I picture how ethereal you’d look under them. The yellow glow casting a halo around your curls. It makes your shadow stretch into infinity. I don’t think I have ever seen a more beautiful image. I jerk the wheel, turning into the oncoming lane because for a second, I thought you told me to. Headlights snake around the bend, facing me head on. I swerve out of a way, cursing you under my breath. There nothing I hate more than a cliche. You’re the voice in the back of my head, the devil on my left shoulder. I can’t get rid of you. I don’t think I want to. 

My car is getting hot. Briefly, I think about the preacher. He’s right; we are all going to Hell. I picture the hood of my car bursting into flames and for a second, I hope it happens. It might stop me from what I am about to do. A minivan passes me and I see the parents are fighting in the front. Their kids are asleep in the back, oblivious to what is happening. I envy them. Thunder cracks outside, I barely flinch. I want to shield the kids from the oncoming rain.

The streetlights are getting sparser. The gaps of darkness are getting larger. I see you again. This time, you are surrounded by a blinding white light. Your hand is reaching out, calling for me. Your eyes tell me that you know what I am about to do. The car is rattling violently. The only thing I hear is my own heart pounding in the rhythm of your name. You nod to me as the light grows brighter. I take my hands off the wheel and reach towards you. The car swerves and suddenly I am weightless. I am coasting with no definite direction. I am free. The light grows so bright that I cannot bear to look at it any longer. There is a shrill screech of tires, then darkness.

I know what I did.
I am sorry.

Similar Articles


This article has 0 comments.