The Long Road Home; pt. 7

He walked into the car, it was freezing, and the windows were clouded with fog and ice. He was hungry, and tired. It had been months since he had a decent night’s sleep. Well, he wasn’t actually sure how long it was.
The ignition was shot. He spent what seemed like hours trying to chug the engine along into starting, the noise was starting to nauseate him. Finally, it started, and the warmth of the car heater brought peace to his mind and hearth to his body. He made his way off the exit, and onto the road. It was dark, and his lights were dimming out. He could barely see, and yet, he went on.
He popped some more amphetamines, all though the feeling of slight euphoria they gave him did not amount to the guilt he felt over taking them. He was tired of such a useless routine, and longed for something new. He drove forward, and sideways, the only sign of hope being the occasional traffic light, or an animal crossing the road.
About 100 miles down the road he stumbled upon a horrific accident. There were two cars; one was a large black sub that was sitting on its side in the middle of the road, and the other, a white convertible that had flipped onto the snow towards the left side of the road. There were not yet any police on arrival, and not an ambulance to ensure these people’s fate. The decision was his and his alone.
He saw a woman trying to escape from her window of the SUV. Her hand was severed, most likely from the broken glass of the windshield, and the blood loss was immense, spraying the black SUV with its effervescent glow. He leapt out of his car to help her.
“Please, help me sir,” she said, “My husband, he is stuck.”
He gazed inside the gar, and to his horror saw the man’s head sticking through the glass, pieces of it broken off and lodged in his exposed brains. He fought the urge to puke and gained his composure. The amphetamines turned out to be not such a bad idea after all.
“Listen Miss, we need to get you to a hospital,” he said.
“My husband,” she cried, “We’ve been married for 33 years, he can’t die.”
“I know, I know,” he said, “but please let me help you.”
He dragged her from the car as she shrieked hysterically. He removed his prized leather coat and used it to clot the blood flowing from the woman’s left wrist. He ran to his car and retrieved a bottle of vicodin, a fifth of vodka, and a first aid kit.
“Here, please take these, it’ll numb” the pain,” he said, “both kinds.”
She lay back, and he fed her three pills, and had her tilt her head slightly so he could use the booze to wash them back, she made a distasteful gesture with her face as the harsh warm vodka warmed her and calmed her.
“Thank you,” she said, “you’re kind, you might now know it yet, but you’re kind.”
The woman’s face was losing color, and it was then he noticed a far more serious wound in her belly, a large piece of glass that had wedged itself between her ribs. He tried to dress it up with gauze. It was too late. The woman coughed blood and her eyes rolled into her head, and she sat there in his arms, lifeless, and at peace.
The man saw headlights coming into his vision. He had forgotten about the car on the side of the road, but it didn’t matter.
A large man stepped out of the ambulance, and approached him. He looked at the lifeless woman sitting in his arms.
“There was nothing you could have done,” he said, “But this woman will be eternally grateful for what you tried to do.”
Then, he cried.