Stop and Go
Plastic bags from the local ABC took air around me. The windows were down, giving the pop music on the radio an echoey quality as it competed with the wind. It was a melancholy day in February where time passed like wax; mini bottles of 99 cent liquor the only remedies I knew.
The tires squealed as they were dragged against the road. My minivan came to a halt a moment too late, and I sat there, dumbfounded and inebriated. A porcelain butterfly had been tied to the rear-view mirror, I watched as it splintered into a dozen little pieces.
With shaking hands I opened the door and stumbled out. I wiped a dribble of alcohol off my chin, smudging my pink lipstick in the process.
“Are you alright?”
He was lying on his side, scraped arms obscuring his face. He looked to be around 15, with a skateboard in the road beside him. His leg was broken and his ribs concave from the impact.
I heard his gasping, pained voice.
My husband was at work until early tomorrow morning. Our son was staying the night at his friend’s house. I had a choice to make, and I’d made it the moment of collision. They’d never know the truth.
“I’m sorry,” I said, getting back in the minivan. “It’s my life or yours.”
I drove over him once more, to be on the safe side.
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