11.6.09
Tonight, I was the worst thing that ever happened to you. I’d driven the route a hundred times since we met, my house to yours. In the dead of winter, the dead of night. I convinced myself a long time ago that I would never find myself in so bad a place that I would want to commit suicide. That’s how cowards die, how people who can’t face their problems die. They take the easy way out. I would never be like that. Not me. Half an hour ago, I realized how badly I was fooling myself.
Tonight was too cold for this time of year. Even the breath from your nose was visible. The soft hum of the engine and the blurry music was all you could hear in the car. No speaking and no movement for the entire ride. As I drove, I prayed for tunnel vision. I wished for a some divine spark to strike me and take away my peripheral view. Anything but seeing you cry. Anything. Where has the joy, the love, gone? I know. It’s been covered by a veil of silence, of worry, of fear. I focus back on the road; where did those last few miles go?
We approach your house. It’s the best and worst part of the drive. Why am I almost glad to know you’re leaving? Do you feel the same way? You look down, then up toward me. You’re on the verge of tears; I realize I am too. You thank me for driving you home. I don’t answer. You say “I love you.” Define formality. “I love you too.” Merely an echo. Does it mean anything anymore? Did it ever? Before I realize, you leave, making your way to your door. I speed out of the driveway, almost instinctively. I didn’t stop crying until I hit the highway.
And that’s when it hits me. Me, in my car, driving home, wishes I weren’t alive. It’s almost as if a switch flipped in my mind. I don’t see road signs or buildings around me anymore. Instead, ways to die. Ways out. I speed up, thinking one jerk of the wheel into an oncoming car would be quick. Undo my seatbelt, commit, and in an instant, my problems are solved. No more feelings, no more pain, no more me. I keep driving, without a seatbelt now, toward home. Since I can’t do it, maybe an accident will do it for me.
At home now. Alone, sad, and scared. What happened tonight? How did a few minutes of silence make so much noise? Why didn’t I just say something? What happens now? I’m finding out now, as I write this.
…”It’s so hard now”…”Are you happy with the way things are”…”What do we do now”…”It’s my fault”…”Don’t say that”…”I don’t know anymore”…”I don’t want to hurt you”…”I don’t want to lose you”…”I’m sorry”…
Uncertainty. Regret. Heartache. That’s what tonight brought us. That’s what happens now, and I wish, with everything I have, that it wasn’t.
