Page 104 of Dark Ugly Places

Nicola

I’m stuck in a permanent loop. Time speeds up and slows down in strange intervals.

Walking, holding hands.

A sun-lit, pure blue.

The quiet of the morning.

Road clear.

The crow overhead—bare branches.

Emmy pulling.

Ben’s joke.

The slow steps toward death I cannot ever undo.

It is that day.

In the road now, tires squealing. Emmy screaming. Slam. Asphalt. Bones and ligaments. Blood.

I wait for the moment his shoe hits the ground. Black and too shiny, too large, like a cartoon. Something is wrong. Out of place. I look up, and I see him—the driver—but I cannot ever glimpse his face. Like a bad dream, his head is there but missing. No details, eyes, or expression. Just a blur.

Then the car door. Slam. Engine. Reverse. The white monster disappears behind us. Ben lies dying. I go to him and hold his hand. Blood curdles. He takes a final breath. There is nothing I can do. The sirens are miles away.

Pure darkness. The scene collapses. Do you see it now?

No. I don’t. I was distracted. I was looking for the driver.

Stop trying to see what you don’t need to see.

Wash. Rinse. Repeat. I’m falling again.

Walking. Holding hands. Sunlight. The purest day. Blue? The quietest of mornings. Clear road. Crow. Branches. Emmy leading me. Ben making her laugh. Slow steps and death. The thought transpires like it always does: I cannot stop this …

Tires. Scream. Asphalt. Bones. Blood.

There’s the shoe, so big and black that I think I see my own face in it. Glancing up, and he’s there.

“Stop!” I shout, and this breaks up the image like shattered glass. I know I’m not supposed to talk out of turn, but I can’t help it. His face is there, right there. If only I could see it. Particles blurring. Features shifting, like Play-Doh in Emmy’s tiny hands. It moves and swirls now, coming into focus.

I strain to see it, like a murky picture clearing before my eyes. Push through the fog. Get to the nub of things. Concentrate. Ignore your husband choking beside you in the road, his life expiring. See it. See him.

The face crystallizes, but not enough to be sure. A moment to register it before everything goes dark and the cycle starts again.

Are you getting it now? the darkness asks, its voice inside my ear.

“I don’t think so.”

You are not supposed to see the driver. He doesn’t matter. She does.

“She?”

Yes. She.

“I don’t understand.”