2.72
It is snowing. The pickup behind us seems close. The road is a railway, with condensed snow tracks laid before us. There are three of us in the car, dad is driving and mom is in back. I used to ride in back. There is no radio, but we are not without music. A rhythmic wiper blade provides us 110 beats per minute. I love the winter and the quiet the snow brings; the distance from others.
I look at my dad. What is he saying? His arm lifts off the wheel and springs towards me. I forget where I am. His palm slams into my right shoulder. His arm is a bar across my chest. He is pushing me through my seat. I can’t remember how to breathe. The wiper blade is my dead Grandmother’s clock and it’s counting down.
Five. I speak, but I don’t know what I am saying.
Four. My seat is vibrating as I bounce to the right in slow motion.
Three. A beautiful horn sounds in the distance.
Two. I close my eyes.
One. My words are gone, but not my voice. I scream.
I’m afraid. I open my eyes and see my mom. I don’t know why, but seeing her is bad. How can seeing my mother be bad? I close my eyes. I don’t see anymore.
-The End