Living merely prolongs the rotting process, for when we die the skin decomposes, the follicles break down, the features which once made one beautiful or recognizable dry out and flake away leaving only the frame to which not even the most rough of assumptions can be formed. we play with clay and praise the artist for his rendition, but none may actually attest that that be the dead man’s face. we know not of deformities based on bone alone for ailments of the flesh are simply skin deep and nothing more. a scar dare not impress itself upon a bone for fear of permeability, fear that even in death his peers will notice him, segregate him, mock the weakness of his marrow.
I’m riding down the road in my car. Everything seems so normal. I completely disregard the fact that in my passenger seat is my brother-in-law who I have never once given a ride to before. The edges of my vision shimmer. I do not know where I am going, where I came from, or where I am at any given moment. What I do know, is a car has pulled out in front of me, and it’s too icy to stop.
I fade back into consciousness. I am upside down, hanging, a hard length pressed into my chest. It takes me a moment to realize I am still inside the mangled vehicle. We have capsized. I struggle to free myself from the strap holding me to the mutilated mass of metal, but my fingers are too broken to comply. I suddenly remember I was not alone. I look to my right, and lock eyes with my brother-in-law. He is dead. His body, free within the cavity of the car from lack of restraint, is shattered; skin lacerated and viciously leaking.
It seems in ample time I am briskly pulled from the wreckage. The snow has begun to melt making me wonder just how long our vesicle had been breached. As I am ushered away I hear murmurs of a third body. My heart stops. Breaking the hold of my rescuer I make my way back to the scene. No one stops me. No one cares. I bend down and gaze into the back seat and promptly vomit down my front. Within a crushed car seat I see the remains of my three year-old niece; her neck twisted in such an unnatural position. It had snapped in the collision. I reach out to her, but a glint catches my eye and my hand reaches for this instead. It is a small mirror that was once mounted on the baby’s car seat. I look into its vast depths. My only sister’s sullen face looks back.
(And let the Prozac deprived nightmares begin. Wonderful.)