Sorry about this Blast from the Past. Recovering from a root canal and the suffering torture of a massive head cold. I pretty much feel like this right now. This one was first published on October 4th, 2014.

We’ve all wondered about things like this. Come on, am I the only one with a dark side that thinks such thoughts? You can tell me, I won’t share the thoughts with anyone else.

Blood Runs Red on the Freeway

The night spit down a torrential spout of rain the night Alex killed himself. Crashed right into the support pillars of the East Street overpass. No tread marks marred the black pavement before his car smacked into the pillar. He had not tried to stop.

Cold, so very cold, chilled to the bone, he shivered as the rain passed through his vaporous form. He reached his hands out toward the flames that consumed the wreckage of his car but still felt nothing but the cold night air.

Flickr Creative Commons via Michael Gil
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Cars passed the accident. A procession of gawkers and rubberneckers but not a one stopped to investigate or offer help. They couldn’t see him. Not that he cared. He chose this. A fitting end for a lackluster life, what more was needed?

Flashing lights blasted through the rain soaked night as rescue workers rushed onto the scene. “Too late,” he said. They pushed through to the heart of the wreckage without a glance in his direction.

It was the silence that troubled him, maybe even more than the cold. Sounds ceased to exist in this half world he existed in. The traffic around him, the sirens from the rescue vehicles, even nature itself in this desolate portion of the freeway, no sounds filled his ears.

Wait, not that, he realized it was something more. The whispering wind from a seashell assaulted his eardrums. A mournful wail of desolation he could not block from his mind. At the edge of reason a rumble added to the song, much like thunder just before a storm.

The sound pushed closer a steady thrum and pounding rhythm. At first he felt it all around him and then it coalesced and solidified south on the freeway just past the accident.

Wheels hit the pavement with a squeal and a large white motorcycle cut through the accident’s confusion and pulled up next to Alex. The biker wore black leather and a deep black full-face helmet. The visor was dotted with pinpoints of light that stretched into a distance without end. Alex stumbled as he pulled his sight away from the man’s face shield.

It’s time. The words ripped into Alex’s mind with an icy claw.

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