An Inhuman Condition

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Adam is speeding down interstate 114 in his two-tone Dodge Dart, and his shoulder is killing him. The car’s powder-blue paintjob gives way a little more to the encroaching rust every year. The hood and roof look like a copper penny shoved through the center of a robin’s egg as it shakes it’s way down the road. The sun is setting, and he can barely make out the Lakeview exit for the glare. His normally slick and slightly curled hair is matte and dirty with the same blood covering his cheek and neck. His bed-head hairstyle is much more literal, resting on his face like James Dean wearing a mophead as a hat. His eyes are burning sapphire on the road as he snorts, taps the brake and forces the wheel to the right with his lip curling from the pain of the gunshot wound. As he squints to check for traffic, he sees Jenny’s ring on a chain around the mirror. He wishes he’d never gotten her involved in all this again, and he hopes he can get her out this time. His right foot hits the floor, and pain be damned, he spins out around the corner racing down the street.
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“To new beginnings?”
“To new beginnings,” she said.

I wasn’t sure when we spoke the words, and now the weight of that unknowing is the ballast in my gut.

“I love you,” I said.
“I love you, too.”

But did she? Did she really?

I awoke to the diddle of a text; my blurred vision struggling with the electronic luminescence of the screen. There she was, in the top left corner among the widgets and hieroglyphs describing the phone’s current condition: the time, three bars of service, WiFi connection, battery charging and Jessie. I pulled out the charger cable and brought the phone back to bed. Dragging my finger down the screen, I saw the message:

“I can’t sleep.”
“What’s up?”
“My brain is just racing, and I feel terrible. I don’t know if I want to talk about it.”
“Alright, is there anything I can do to help?”
“I just don’t want to hurt you.”

There we go. I sat up in bed and grabbed my cigarettes from the nightstand. The clock burned a red “2:32” in my vision like a warning. I was well aware of every passing second as I felt for the lighter, formed a cautious response in the back of my head, prepared for the worst and lit the cigarette. The flame was brighter yet, and it hurt watching to make sure the damn thing lit. I took a long moment to inhale before pressing my thumb to the screen.
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Winter is here again, and I don’t think I’ve finished writing anything I don’t hate in two years. There will be something here in prose before this year is over or I’m just going to shut it all down and figure out how reality television works. Been reading all of the William Gibson books. Currently reading the new Nicola Barker and watching all of The X-Files. I’m figuring out that aside from the odd joke, I don’t know how to social media anymore. I’m staying indoors more and more. Places with people are keeping me away. I need to get out of here.

Need to get moving and do the damn work.