Day 4: Highway
Part 2
“When did my life become a David Lynch movie?” I thought to myself, strenuously blinking as though that was going to make the night somehow less dark. I inched myself closer to the steering wheel, draping my shoulders across it. “Yes, because if I could only just go through the windshield, then that would certainly improve visibility.” My brain should be a standup comic. If she didn’t need my dumb mouth and fragile body to translate her words to a crowd, she’d have her own Netflix special premiering this spring.
Netflix. TV. Couch. Ahhh how far out of reach those things seem right now. I’d trade anything to throw my legs across my not-super-comfy-but-cozy-enough-for-me, love-seat-masquerading-as-a-sofa- couch. To kick back, toss a two-sizes-too-small throw across my legs, jam a few flattened pillows under my head and let my mind be corrupted by trashy TV and romance movies. Who would ever think that there’d be a time where I’d actually be yearning for my boring Friday nights?
“Why the hell is this stop sign here anyway? There’s no cross-road to let other cars drive past. There is no pedestrian walkway. There’s just more… road. A winding, seemingly endless stretch of road. What do I need to stop for?” My mind is racing as if an answer needs to be presented to me before the non-existent timer chimes.
So I do.
I stop.
And I stop.
And I stay stopped.
“Do you only do what you're told?” A voice whispered in my ear, but there was no one else in the car with me.
“Oh Hell no. Not some omniscient narrator bullshit. Not right now.” I think as I step on the gas, burning rubber as I drive like hell away from the stop sign.
I keep pressing on trying not to think too much. I’m keeping my focus on one thing and one thing only: home. If I can get to safety I can forget about everything that happened this week. Everything I witnessed. Everything I took part in. I don’t care if it takes years and years of therapy and work to wipe my brain of what happened, I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it. But now, right now, getting home is the only thing I need to have on my mind. It’s the only way out of Hell.
I turned on the radio but it was just static again. I punched the dial like a bully from the 1950s; I knew it wouldn’t do anything, but I needed to show it who was boss. Music would make this trip more manageable. Hell, I’d take the rantings of a conspiracy theory lunatic on a late-night radio show for grifters if it meant I could turn off the rational parts of my brain for a couple of hours. The silence made me all too attuned to the outside noises on this drive, my windows open because like everything else in this car, the air conditioning was busted. It was just breezy enough outside to be effective without being overwhelmingly loud, I tried to allow the outside air to serve as white noise but instead, I found myself distracted by the occasional chirp of cicadas and clicks of bats. And then another, strangely familiar sound… footsteps.
“How?”
I was puzzled, I was driving no less than 65 MPH yet clear as day I could hear the taps of someone jogging beside me. No, not someone, someones.
Against my better judgment, I jerked my head to the right to discover a group of four people sprinting next to me. They were barely breaking a sweat but keeping pace with my vehicle.
“WHAT THE HELL?!” I gasped as I slammed on the brakes, jerking my body forward and thrusting my entire head and upper body into the steering wheel. A car that wasn’t a pile of junk on wheels would have deployed the airbags at this point, but I’d be shocked to find out this car ever even had them to begin with.
“Thanks for stopping, no one ever does,” one of the joggers commented, though none seemed to move their mouths to speak.
“Who are you?” I asked, stunned.
“We just need a ride,” another answered.
“To where?”
“We’re really glad you stopped for us again.”
I looked ahead and noticed a stop sign. The same stop sign as before. I was in the same place as before despite what felt like an hour’s worth of driving. I fought the urge to slam on the gas once more, fearing it would take me even further back in my travels.
“I asked: to where? Answer me!” I demanded of them.
“Why don’t you tell us?” Another answered and, again, I still couldn’t make out who was speaking.
“How can I tell you where you’re going?! You need to tell me!!” I was growing more impatient by the second.
“Do you only do as you're told?”
There it was again. They all stepped closer and outstretched their arms, pulling at the handles of my door.
“NO! NOT AGAIN!!” I yelped and sped off.
Home. Home. Home. I’m going to get home.
I drove. And I drove. And I drove. The highway seemed to stretch on forever. But I could tell by the time on the radio that I was making progress. Soon this would all be over.
Then I saw it in the distance, a light. A beacon of hope. Something to tell me everything was going to be alright.
A sign.
A sign.
No. Not that sign. It couldn’t be.
A stop sign.
That stop sign.
I gently pressed on the brakes and came to a full stop. There were more of them now and their requests were still the same. They wanted me to take them somewhere, but they’d never say where.
It had been this way for the last five years. It will be this way for the rest of time.
“Do you only do as you're told?”
I do. I let them drag me to hell with them and never said a word. Then once I was free, I made the mistake that damned me forever.
I stopped. I let them in. And now, no matter what I do and how far I drive, I’ll always be on this road. And I can never forget.
Maybe the stop sign is just there for me to… stop.