Page 97 of Poetry By Dead Men
"Phil followed after you left. He’s coming up behind you, and the police are on their way," Sam says with forced calm.
"They'll be too late," Bobby snaps, "He’s going to ram us off the damn road!"
Bobby’s terror is palpable, and it amplifies my own. It’s hard to breathe. Hard to even think.
"Take the first exit you see," Sam orders. "If he seems like he's trying to make you crash, you need to be going at a slower speed. You're more likely to lose him on back roads than the highway."
By some miracle, an exit appears in front of us and a sob of relief bursts from my throat. Bobby gets in the left lane to speed up, then cuts across both lanes to take the exit ramp. He waits until the last second, so long it's almost too late to clear the guardrail, but it doesn't matter. The black sedan follows, its tires squealing as the back of the car fishtails.
"Dammit," Bobby hisses under his breath. The sedan speeds up, moving onto the shoulder again.
Bobby hits the gas, but the sedan is faster, flying forward and cutting in front of us. Bobby hits the breaks and swerves to the left, our tires squealing as they try to find purchase on the road.
It's too late. We crash head on into the sedan, the horrible groan of metal collapsing in on itself and the clang of glass shattering making my ears bleed.
It’s said by those who survive that time slows when you think you’re going to die.
That’s only partly true.
As our tires squeal and the metal frame of the car crunches in a deafening roar, I processeverything.
Each second feels like thirty as pieces of glass fly around my head like glittering, lethal diamonds. I’m thrown back into my seat, all tooaware of the searing agony of the bones in my nose snapping beneath the airbag. The sharp bite of pain when my seat belt catches, cutting into my skin as it tightens across my chest and collarbone.
My stomach lurches, and suddenly we're upside down, then upright again, then upside down. Rolling and rolling, orange and yellow sparks exploding brighter than fireworks on New Year’s Eve as the top of the car is ripped apart by the asphalt.
The smell of gasoline and burning rubber makes my head swim, and the metallic tang of blood dripping from my nose into my mouth almost makes me vomit.
My whole life flashes before my eyes. My parents’ disappointment. Molly’s grief. Birthdays and graduations and late nights writing poetry beneath my covers. The sloping lines of the words gifted to me—the ones I’ve kept tucked close to my heart.
Harrison’s poems.
Bobby’s lyrics.
Someone cries out my name—a deep, desperate prayer.
An anguished, broken plea.
I’m aware of every miniscule detail as time slows to a nearly stagnant pace. And yet, I don’t even have time to scream as my head smashes into the side window, and the world goes dark.
NOW
September 2024: Charleston, SC
I’ve needed you before
But my call went unanswered, unheard
As he took his final breath
St. Jude, you didn’t keep your word
—An excerpt from "St. Jude," written and performed by Robert Beckett
I'm visiting Michael.
The distinctive scent of hospital disinfectant fills my nostrils, and I hear the steady beeping of monitors. I've been to see him hundreds of times, except—I wince, my head suddenly throbbing. I squint against a bright light behind my eyelids, but my eyes won’t open.
My head swims, and I feel the sudden urge to vomit. But… that doesn't make sense, I'm just visiting Michael.
