I drove for hours and hours. I decided I’d never tell a living soul what happened, not even my best friend. I’d never tell anyone.
Then, the car crash.
A cop picked me up at a little diner.
I called him from a payphone outside the gas station, then I had called my sister and left her a message.
In the diner, all those stupid people looking at me, wondering if I was a criminal.
In the cop’s car, there were no door handles in the back.
The cop told me stories as he drove; told me I was lucky to be alive.
And I was.
At the police station, standing in line for hours… cold coffee in a styrofoam cup; the dull thud of waiting.
The car graveyard. Rows and rows of twisted and mangled machines lined-up in order of severities.
One had been torn inside-out.
One looked like it had been scooped-up with a giant spatula.
One was crushed and bent up to the sky like a sculpture.