Wee Woo Bus

It's the corpse. Pale and drained of life. Skin stale and cold.

It's the beauty of your girlfriend, eyes pure joy in their turquoise hue.

It's the screams of them dying. Echoing through the truck as your medic works to "fix" them.

It's the quiet in your car as you sit outside your driveway.

It's the blinding blinking lights, casting everything in an alarming color of red, blue, and white. Your truck. The firetruck. The police cars. It's a scramble of vibrancy Picasso would prize.

It's the dark of the empty home. The moonlight casts the shadows of the blinds ruthlessly on the carpet floor.

It's the smell of the blood. Yes, his. And especially his. Hers too. Each of them different. Each as unique as the lives that once held it.

It's the smell of the soap, hand sanitizer, lotion, that masks it. The overtly strong cherry blossom that reminds you of your childhood.

It's the feeling as their ribs break. Their chest caving in beneath your weight. The crackle. The pop. The air is forced out of their lungs with each push and you force it back down. The smell of their incontinence a constant.

It's burying your face against her shoulder. Smelling her hair. Feeling her smooth skin. The strong muscles. Counting her ribs with soft fingers. Ear against her chest, listening to the strong heart and soft breathing.

It's driving home and realizing you're driving too fast because you miss the adrenaline.

It's calling your family because in their pictures you see the corpses of the past. Present. Future.

It's trying to giggle to get the pressure off your diaphragm.

It's the hopelessness because you can't save them.

It's the boredom because, well, you can't save them. You drive a little faster. You work the horn a little harder.

They're going to die. So many of them are going to die. And you're going to do everything right. And they're going to die. And one day it's just another body.

It's knowing that that's not always true.