The Long Road Home; pt. 8

He was re-invigorated. Eyes were all gazing upon him, and the lights of the cars forming an incandescent and impenetrable sight of vision. He saw the bodies being carried away. It was so familiar to him. And the woman, who was at once so beautiful and full of life, was now cold and blue, nothing emanating from her aside from a deep and foul stench that sickened the air. He knew this somehow. He had experienced this before, but from a different perspective.
He looked at the man carried next to his wife, their love carried into the afterlife. Or did it? Would they even be able to remember such a thing if there was an afterlife? The man’s body was decimated beyond recognition.
The air was stale and filled with death, yet still cool and refreshing. He walked backed to his vehicle in a state of deep self-reflection. The déjà vu was disturbing him. He couldn’t draw a connection between this occurrence of brutality and his previous experiences. The more he thought the more he realized he couldn’t comprehend time and its implications. He could have experienced this a million times and possibly have not remembered. But nevertheless, he felt whole and happy that he was able to be with the woman during her last breaths, to offer her comfort. Therefore maybe her journey would be easier and less mind numbing than his.
He turned the car on. There was a light shining on far down the road, and he felt drawn to it, he knew it was his destination. He had no idea what lay beyond the flash of white that was but a spec on his ray of vision, but he knew that wasn’t important, what was important was only that he get there.
He drove into the black, with the light at the end. No more stops, except for smokes, was what he vowed to himself. The amphetamine was running out, and he no longer felt the need for it. The excitement and anticipation was enough to keep him awake for eternity. 110 mph down the freeway. He felt free for the first time since he couldn’t remember, if he could remember at all.
He thought of the women at the hotel and the road. They seemed to be connected somehow, two different sides of his persona. The woman at the hotel was almost a manifestation of his inner guilt and trauma over something he didn’t remember (of course) experiencing. The woman on the road meant he still had heroism in him left, that he had kept his promise to the man at the hotel, he had kept hope. For whatever reason, he still felt hopeful in a world bereft of meaning and passion. He saw the point of soldiering on down that deep black road and into the beautiful shimmering white light. The ward grew warmer as he grew closer, like his blood was elevating in temperature as the miles progressed. So close, he could feel it.