no one knows how far i've driven in the dark*

I heard it before I saw it - the roaring of an engine, shattering the quiet Sunday air.

The service was as it was every Sunday and Wednesday - fire and brimstone, force-fed guilt and discreet shame, followed by someone being dunked into a pristine pool of water, supposedly symbolizing the cleansing of sin, but really just resulting in the need of extra towels and perhaps a ruined billfold.

I held her hand, much to the chagrin of the old men and women who loathed any open expression of affection. Feeling the warmth of her flesh pressed against mine, remembering the feel of her body against my own, anticipating the feeling again.

The engine roared - screamed - deafening and beautiful, the way only a street-illegal-bike could.

We walked from our pew in the back of the tiny church, relishing the looks stabbing in our direction. There was bliss in their derisiveness, knowing they hated our love, and loving nonetheless.

It was a perfect day.

The summer sun, hot and giant in the pale blue sky, showered its rays on the vacant street.

We made our way to the door, patiently waiting behind an old woman with blue hair - a sweet old woman who, when alone with us, would tell us how much we reminded her of how she was with her dead husband. In public, though, she would not speak to us, or even look our way - the fallout from the bible-belted community would be far too much for her to take.

Outside, the roar of the engine grew louder, then faint, as the bike crisscrossed the unpaved street in front of the church.

Holding my war-torn bible in one hand, her hand in the other, we said hello to the preacher and his wife. My grandparents were in line behind us, not acknowledging us. Her parents were at home, not partaking in the bi-weekly ritual - her mom too medicated to care, and her dad too drunk to face daylight.

Outside, on the steps, we said our hellos and goodbyes monosyllabically - Hi, How are you? Thanks. Bye. K. Hi. Bye.

Blinded by the sun, I didn't even see him, but I heard him.

It took a few seconds to adjust to the world's light. I saw the dust before I saw him - popping a wheelie, showing off.

He just received his dirt-bike a few months prior, and had become a pro at it, as he was apt to do. J.R.* was always a savant of sorts - given access to anything, he could learn how it worked, and how best to use it in the impressing of open-minded lasses.

His front wheel hung in the air, motionless. The back wheel kicked up a cloud of dirt, as the motor shouted at us, demanding our attention.

A half-smile slapped itself onto my face, involuntary. J.R.* was ever the showman. That's why we loved him - despite him being a few years my minor, he was a major part of my small circle of friends.

The entire congregation watched him go. Some hearts burst with the joy of seeing such happiness let loose upon the earth, others hesitant, and most derisive.

I let go of my love's hand to shake the pastors, as J.R.* reached the intersection.

In such a small town, traffic lights weren't needed, and stop signs were just suggestions most ignored.

J.R.* barreled through the 4-way stop, still on only one wheel, still looking back to make sure we all saw his fantastic antics.

With the pastor's cold hand in my own, I saw it. The flash of light, cold steel glinting in the summer sun.

The roar of his engine died suddenly, the beauty of his freedom replaced by a cold crack - metal on metal.

As a group, we all looked, and vacated our lungs of air, simultaneously.

He, dressed in black shorts and long-sleeve black shirt on his blue bike, his greasy, too long (by the church-goers standards) hair - and the truck - pale green with little clean enough for the sun to cling to - collided in a sickening thud.

I saw him flying, an angel waiting for his wings. The driver of the truck stayed emotionless, both hands on top of the steering wheel, as his rear wheels locked up, billowing black smoke and gray dust.

J.R. flew out of view, hidden behind the abandoned building on the corner. My heart stopped, my hand stuck in the pastor's, cold sweat on cold flesh.

All thought was lost. I heard nothing, though there must have been some shouting and quiet words exchanged.

Crushing metal on youthful flesh silenced the world around it

J.R. flew through the dry air, his eyes wide and aware.




-----



A wreath of flowers marked the spot, along with a cardboard cross.
We walked past the spot daily, despite it being out of our way, asking ourselves - what do you do with pieces of a broken heart?

At school, an meeting was held. Teachers and administrators racked their brains, looking for some meaning in tragedy. An assembly was held, prayers lead.

His friends abstained.

J.R. was not there, not in that dirty, age-cracked building, watching people pretend to pour their hearts out.

No, J.R. was outside, in the summer air, feeling the freedom of a world that wasn't ready for him, a world not good enough for his energy.



















*names and details changed due to broken memory and to protect some semblance of anonymity

herlihy

He lay on the floor, curled into a ball, a mass of nerves on fire, cold sweat and a bitter taste on his tongue.

shespokesosoftlythen

The icy tiles pressed on his cheek, grid lines forming. His eyes darted around the room, searching for anything and latching onto nothing.
gavemeherdolltorememberher
His sweat-soaked hair fell, draped upon the dirty floor, cleaving patches of cleanliness.
hediedaloneinthestreetnotknowinghewasloved
Slowly, achingly, he forced himself up and towards a porcelain respite.
whydidshecrysomuchthatnight
Flashes of light, of his life, passed through his mind, transient thoughts and half-formed
wrappingpaperlitteredthegroundnoonesmiled
memories danced in and out of view.
He reached the toilet, clinging to the rim
almostdrownedmybrothersavedme
looking into the dirty bowl, into his own reflection.
His hair dangled, draping his face, matted with white chunks of vomit. The burning in his stomach, the sharp, stabbing pain in his side faded in and out and back in again.

His eyelids closed
thecarwasonitsside
and his eyes started to roll
thewindshieldgone
to the back of his head.
icouldntseehimicouldntfindhim
He began shaking, his teeth digging into his bottom lip
therewassomuchsmoke
and a drop of blood slipped down his chin
somuchsomuchsomuch
and fell into the bowl
andthendarkandthennothing
spreading like a rose in the water.

Footnote

1942

The heat was stifling - a hot, humid heat that hung over the air like a blanket. The ocean air made breathing an excercise, like having a blanket covering every inch of you, when all you want is the cold crispness of a fresh breeze, a breeze you know won't come.

A sick energy buzzed through the villages, filling every nerve with nervous anticipation. Dark smoke flowed through the trees to the north, growing closer daily.

There were no phone lines to carry the news, but it traveled anyway - war was coming, the slow death march.

Stories traveled from village to village, too horrible to be true. Soldiers were killing civilians for no reason, slitting a dozen throats with bayonet from the back of a moving truck. No one dared to believe it could be true.

But the smoke moved closer, no more than a day away, and this village was in the middle of the warpath.


He stood outside of his home, a beautiful two-story structure built with his own hands, built for the love of his life. She stood at the second story bedroom window, the tropical sun shining through lace curtains. Beautiful - she was unbearably beautiful.

He had to turn away, not able to look at her, knowing the dangers that were down the road, not wanting to let the tears sting his eyes, knowing they would.

They had a plan - the women would hide in a cellar, while the men and boys old enough to fight would make their stand. They did not hope for victory - there was no room for such futile thoughts. There was also no room for surrender. The village was built by hand, the stones paved with the blood and love of generations, and it would not be given freely to the coming barbarians.


... to be continued

Disclaimer

*Everything, once written, becomes fiction, no matter how much truth is meant to exist within. Everything here has some grain of truth, but seen through the lens of time and perspective, the story changes. Memory mixes with imagination, contorting and distorting, creating something that is neither truth nor fiction.