Checking the Car

It’s late. I’m becoming paranoid. I can hear the thumping of bass from passing cars. Doors slamming. Screaming. My window shudders with me. To look into my peripheral- my irises must cross oceans. Waves crash. Everything blurs. Life is now an abstract painting of the surroundings a young man sees on his way to make sure that his car is locked. The gleam of a cell phone shining onto the untended grass. A barren flagpole. A mossy wishing well that serves no purpose. The car door opens with a whine. I turn over the engine to make sure the battery hasn’t died. Sit. Waiting. Not sure what for. The radio’s red face shines. I turn up the volume. The music is static. I cannot feel its pulse. There is no throb of emotion. No shining agony. No comforting roar. The car’s engine begins its own song. Misfiring as if it were crying out to God. A last, tragic statement of attrition. Everything is broken. I turn off the engine, retrieve the keys. Grab my gun out of the glove compartment. Lock the doors. Grind my teeth along the path that leads to the roof under which I hide my sickness. Wishing I could feel the beat of something other than the hammer pounding against my crumbling resolve. -James Kelley 2018