What Have I Done?
Dear God, what have I done?
This question, above all others, is the one echoing inside my heart, or soul, or whatever this is. I can see myself lying in the road, but worse, I can see Janice. She is half on the sidewalk, half in the roadway, and her neck is bent at an impossibly strange angle. I can only pray that she dies soon. I thought maybe she was dead already, until I saw a tear fall from her eye, and watch her drag in a strangled and tortured breath.
Sweet Jesus.
I follow her gaze, and realize she is staring at my body. I have no doubt I am dead, since the blood and brains that are leaking around my crushed skull are spreading out into the rain-wet street as the first sirens cry in the distance.
I'm suddenly transported backward through time to earlier this evening, like some twisted and cruel version of that Christmas story with the ghosts. I can't remember the fucking name now, but I remember every detail of the scene I am being forced to witness.
Worse than knowing what is going to happen at the end of the night, is my utter impotency to prevent any of it.
The office Christmas party was supposed to be a fun evening, to let our proverbial hair down. I see Janice, looking gorgeous in her red gown, and I watch myself pour a third vodka tonic. This was all my fault. I watch as I toss the drink back, without even batting an eye. I was always so proud of my ability to handle my liquor.
I watch as I weave slightly on my trip to the bathroom. Asshole!
In the bathroom, I take a piss, then turn and look at myself in the mirror. I pull out the small vial, and use the little spoon on my key ring to snort just enough coke to straighten my gait and put me back in control. I even winked at myself. I so wish I could stop what happens next, but I am stuck as an observer.
I leave the bathroom, and head back to the open bar. Janice scowls at me. No, I thought so then, but now I can see the look of concern in her eyes. That look is followed by pity, and then reluctant acceptance. At the bar, I was just pissed that she didn't trust me to know my own limit, so I poured a fourth drink, and when I catch her eye, I even take a swig from the bottle, before replacing the stopper.
The events after that are a little blurry, until we are getting ready to leave the party. I take a last trip to the bathroom, and finish off the stash in the vial. My eyes are a little red in my reflection, but I am once more in control, and the edges come back into focus. I grin at myself, never realizing the next time I would see my own face, it would be oddly squished from being run over by a car.
I must have pulled off the sober routine well, because no one tried to make sure she drove us home. How I wish someone had.
In the car, we started arguing. I was trying to convince her I was fine to drive, and she kept messing with her purse, and whining at me that she needed to talk to me. I yelled at her to shut up, that we would talk at home. I didn't notice the tears I am watching course down her cheeks, or see what she had taken out of her purse.
Oh God, no!
She is holding a pregnancy test stick, and I can see two pink lines.
I feel sick to my stomach, but I don't have an actual body, so I can only suffer through more pain and regret than humans were designed to endure.
I watch the bridge come into view, and Janice turns her face away from mine. I see myself looking at her, and I remember I was pissed that she was crying, and ruining my Christmas Eve. We start across the bridge doing 52. The limit is 55, so I am good in the old speed department.
I scream silently at myself not to look away from the road, but instead I see myself look over at Janice one last time. A small hiccup and a muscle spasm at just the wrong time, and the wheel jumps in my hand.
Time slows to a crawl, and I watch in slow motion as we careen headfirst into a semi coming the other way. I see us both fly through the windshield, which shatters into thousands of small fragments. I watch as Janice flips end over end, and hear the snap as she lands on the edge of the sidewalk, and I watch her head assume that strange, almost alien angle, bending in a place that was never meant to bend. I see myself land in the road, just as the car that was following the truck swerves around it, both of its passenger side tires lifting and bouncing as they run over my head. The popping noise sounds like a champagne bottle releasing its cork, and I suddenly find myself back above the scene watching it all.
The emergency vehicles are pulling up and blocking the road as the rain begins to fall in earnest.
Dear God, what have I done?
This question, above all others, is the one echoing inside my heart, or soul, or whatever this is. I can see myself lying in the road, but worse, I can see Janice, again, half on the sidewalk, half in the roadway, her neck still bent at that impossibly strange angle. I pray once again that she dies soon, and I once more watch a tear fall from her eye as she takes a strangled and tortured breath.
Sweet Jesus.
As I follow her gaze to where my body lay, broken, bleeding and all together dead, I once more hear the sirens crying in the distance.
No, God! Please, not again!
I'm suddenly transported backward through time to earlier this evening, like some twisted version of that fucking Christmas story with the ghosts, whatever it is called. I can't remember that, but I do remember I have done this before. Many times.
Maybe this is my punishment. Experiencing every second of the evening, over and over. I hope that mercy is also part of God's plan, even for assholes like me. These thoughts become fainter, as I watch myself weave slightly, on my trip to the bathroom, with the coke vial calling my name from my pocket...
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