I’m staring down the winding road in front of me; just watching the tumbleweeds whirl across it. What am I doing here? I try and remember what happened, but my brain is filled with static noise. I should probably start to walk, since its no use standing here frozen like a statue. How did I end up in this strange place with nothing surrounding me for what seemed like thousands of miles? I’m suddenly so hot and uncomfortable. I shift around the seat of the car, but the backs of my thighs stick to the cool leather. The seat cool smooth skin against sticky hot sweating skin. I look down to unbuckle my seatbelt and get out, only to find I’m not wearing one. I’m not even in a car. How did I get here? I lean over to stroke tumbleweed that is rolling by but suddenly stop, and decide to start walking instead. My feet hit the pavement hard, and after a while start to realize I can‘t feel them. It’s almost like walking on air or water instead of hard, dead rock. Actually, now that I’m thinking about it, I can’t really feel anything. I only feel a needle, a sharp pain in the middle of my right palm. I strain my eyes, it’s so bright outside, but I don’t see anything. I look for a splinter, a tiny sliver of glass maybe from the shattered windshield, buried deep in my skin. I find nothing, not even the skin around my palm is red or irritated. I focus on the golden lines down the middle of the highway, and try not to let my gaze wander to the passing tumbleweeds in fear that I’ll stray from my course. My arms hang loosely at my sides and my right hand is burning, but I try to ignore the pain. I know what I have to do, even if I have no clue where I’m going. I’m not sure what it is, but something far down this route calls to me, and I have no choice but to answer.
Screeching careening out of control slow motion stop photography floods my brain bright silver keys dangle above feelings lighten arms floating freely peaceful calmness overcomes violent commotion cotton veil masks destruction and suffering quiet soft music plays piano keys twinkle like stars in the sky breathing slows and stops feeling heavy uncomfortable music getting louder filling eardrums louder and louder with piano keys becoming too loud stabbing brain until piano keys become needles piercing cotton veil is ripped off peaceful calmness become destruction and suffering once more screaming screeching heart beating again faster and faster loud like needles from the piano eyes refuse to snap open wake up
I’ve been walking for decades now, but I’m not as tired as I should be. The pain in my right palm has spread to the other palm and become a steady throbbing drum. I set my pace to match it, a little tune to keep me going. I hope this pain goes away, if it doesn’t how will I ever play again? I smile warmly and remember how my mother forced me to go to piano lessons as a child. I really never minded, although I still loved to give my mother hell about going. I always knew I had a gift for the keys, like I was born playing the piano. Quiet soft music plays piano keys twinkle like stars. Yes, keep thinking about the piano, it really brings joy to my heart. However, I can’t help but remember that I am walking alone on a road that seemingly leads to nowhere. Who created the piano anyway? Did some guy just slap some ivory and strings together and voila! A musical instrument is born? I am ready to cut off my own hands because the pain has become hard to ignore. I would never do such a thing thought. However all this thought of the piano is starting to make my finger twitch and ache. I must keep walking, I’ll find her somewhere.
Breathing hard and fast talking softly inhaling gasping what just happened car road dizzy loud crash sirens breathing breathing silence screaming horns yelling pain ripping through my body singing screaming falling crashing break into a million pieces ice cold glass sharp as teeth razors blood hungry run frightening scared nighttime daytime men in blue and men in suits screaming horns yelling blaming judging so confusing so dizzy spinning turning churning twitching running get away world is gray so loud blue and reds light flash at parties eyesight failing wake up save her
Since I have nothing to do except walk, I organize my mind into a desk. Not a desk like in school, but a beautiful writing desk with a thousand little drawers, nooks, and crannies perfect for secrets and trinkets. On the desk sits a vase of flowers, deep blood red roses. I love them; they add color and mystery with a taste of romance to organized life. As I shuffle around secrets, scraps of knowledge that float loosely in the air, I hear a crash. It is the loudest thing I’ve ever heard. The vase was pushed off the surface of the desk and shattered. Falling crashing break into a million pieces. I am heartbroken; my splash of color has left me, and my desk, forever. I kneel down to pick up the pieces and notice crimson water pooling around the glass. The petals, which are now sliced and scattered, must be losing their color to the water around them. I reach down to sort through the mess in an effort to free the flower petals and notice something peculiar. My hands have been removed from my arms. I must have been shifting around in the glass too much because of the shaggy angle they were cut at and the loose pieces of skin that hung off my wrists like curtains. How odd, I think to myself as I inspect my bloody stumps. I awkwardly transport my hands to a safe drawer in the desk; I will have to deal with them later. I decide to continue to walk, with my newly shortened arms swinging by my side.
Murderer killer she did not have to die so young why fresh daisies broken crumpled dead ruined never forgive never forget over rolling stopping screeching time racing running faster faster heart beats for the last time breaking stopping dead forever eternity irreversible accident how why help
I find it. I find her, I find them together. She looks beautiful with her long red hair splayed out behind her head. She lies at an odd angle on the pavement, with her back arched strangely and her neck bent backwards. I wonder why she is asleep here, now in this strange place. I kneel down beside her and say “hi”. I talk to her for a little, explaining to her why I have two stubs for wrists and am missing two hands. I flail my arms about to show her, but she didn’t seem interested. I look over at her, just to see what she’s staring so intently, and see that her face is pale. I get closer to her and start to cry a little. I know she’s dead, I’ve known this whole time. Murderer. I know why the desert road led me to her; I know why the glass took both of my hands. She calls to me from the dead, and I had to answer. I stop weeping and curl up next to her. I close my eyes and drift to sleep, finally able to escape all this madness.
* * *
I wake up sobbing in my hospital bed. I reach up to my face to dry my eyes, but realize I’ve got bandages wrapping up my hands like boxing gloves. That dream I had was still fresh in my mind, still photographs dancing around my already clogged brain. The accident had really screwed me up, I guess, since I was dreaming about pianos, desks, and cutting off my own hands. She was also there; I remember seeing her face and her long red locks. My eyes don’t tear anymore when I think of her, the girl I hit and killed with my car. I cried for a couple days, but I’ve been here for such a long time I don’t even remember that night anymore. I close my eyes and try to remember what happened after I left the party. I was completely drunk, so the details are a little fuzzy. I remember listening to my Beethoven tape, its always playing in my car. I drove for a little and suddenly its like time became slow motion; she ran out in front of my car and the loudest, most sickening sounds I’ve ever heard filled my ears. I hit her, and she died on the spot. I had my hands out, and they went through the glass windshield, cutting them up pretty badly. I was going to fast that the force just threw me out of my seat, guess that what happens when I don’t wear my seatbelt. The gashes and concussion keep me in the hospital, but I figure she’s better off than me. She doesn’t have to live her life as a murderer, like I do.
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