Driving

Like cold blood.

This feeling of cold blood, pushing toward the warmed pain in your sight wishes you to flutter away. Close your eyes-feeling the soothedness of darkened sight, and let everything rest until tomorrow. You feel your movements clouded in a thin haze-covering your arms which function with webbed slowness. You want to sleep. Your body is warmed, your thoughts are numbed. But you know you can't.

The music no longer helps. Your eyes are fixed on the painted strips on the blackness before you. The gilded segments pass under you, one by one by one. You can't pay attention to this. You fear that any stagnated thoughts will drift you off to nothing but warm releases. The painted lines, your mind always relates to the painted lines. Flowing smoothly around everything as you drive. Relaxing, massaging your sight, you thoughts. You force your eyes open, hoping it will keep you awake, yet drowsiness forever seeps in.

Swaying in the back of your mind are the thoughts which somehow keep your eyes in a warm glare. Your mind reluctantly caresses the image of a tear on a cheek.

Silence.

You wish she'd wake up. You look at her, curled in the seat, sleeping like she should. Yet, you want her to talk. Wake up and laugh. Share her thoughts on the shaded landscapes that can't been seen. Share her thoughts on sex, as always. But then, that's what has us in this mess anyway. So she sleeps.

As you wish her to talk, the flashes of what had happened, what was said brings a transparent weight in your chest. You can see your guilt in red waves of air around your body, it clouds your movements so thick you can slice it with your fingertips. You feel a slight sting in your presence, glowing a dark light. You wish you hadn't spoken what was said.

You look over in the seat not even a foot away from you to see Lyssa. Sleeping, her cheeks striped with dry tears, forgotten, for the time, of what she cried for. Your guilt reminds you of her smiles during her moment of pride. Her happiness which defined to you the great moments of defeat, great moments of erected posture and blushing contempt. Your mind, through drowsy clouds, feels the moment when you faded those smiles to a worn image.

You think of what would happen if Lyssa actually would let out an exhausted yawn and speak in a hazy voice.

"How far are we?"

"We're about half way there, " you answer, hoping the past is avoided completely.

"Oh God," says Lyssa, sitting back in her chair. "I knew this was going to take a long fucking eternity." You notice a shiver in her voice and hope she won't begin her tears again.

"C'mon. It's the same three-hour drive you've taken a thousand times before. It's just that all this shit's in your head right now." You speak through the deep hollowness in your chest, hoping she can't hear it in your words. The white emptiness you feel in your throat, nearly gagging you to tears.

"You okay?" she asks with a curiously you notice glazed into her eye.

Fuck. She heard it.

"Um." You think quickly of any lies that you know you can cover up, anything you can say without the obvious tales of a lie. The beats of your heart quicken to a hamster in a cage.

"Nothing."

I'm a weak-minded bastard who can't even lie!

"Bullshit," she says in her usual blunt style. "You lie for shit," Lyssa pauses. You can feel her stare in stagnated waves, groping over your looks. "I'll bet you're still thinking about our little spat . . . aren't you?"
I hate it when the bitch does this!

Your words slowly creep up out of your body. "Well . . ."

"Forget it." All your tension crashes into warmed relief as she interrupts you. "Everything's cool. I expected a blowup like that from you."

You sigh in comfortable movements.

"Yeah." You speak absently out of your relief. "I didn't know what in the hell to say. I get a phone call from my best friend-'Oh hi. I had my baby boy last night, but I need a ride to Albuquerque."

Your entire body smiles to hear Lyssa's laughter. "Yeah. I guess it had to freak you out."

"Hell, yeah it did. I didn't even know you were pregnant for the past nine fucking. All of a sudden, I'm in the middle of a tragic made-for-T.V. movie about a newborn, lung-infect boy, flown 200 miles from his mother."

More laughter. You love the way she laughs, it thickly fills your ears.

"Shut up. Don't make fun of my son." Her words come out of a smile, so you don't feel guilty. Your mind is happy. It's over, you worried for nothing. The steering wheel is now held with an easy smile. Everything you worried for falls with a lulled crash, cooled thoughts massage your mind. You speak purely for the spite of speaking. Your spirit is too high to stay quiet.

"You're right. Everything's cool. I didn't mean all the shit I said. I was just surprised as hell. It was especially hard on me since I love you so much." Oh shit! "I've always loved you Lyssa." What the fuck am I saying? "I always wished there'd be a chance for us." Shut the FUCK UP, bastard. "I always wished you'd one day realize that you loved me too." Oh my GOD!

Your body is numb. Your flesh is made of a thick nothing, thudding with your lead heart. Your mind spins quickly, thoughts become %!@$# . . .

. . . "Oh fuck." The words drag between your lips and through your life painfully forever. The corner of your sight shows Lyssa staring with a cocked eyebrow. You feel the slick sweat between your hands and the steering wheel. You look at the spinning asphalt out your window.

A leap from the car probably wouldn't hurt that much. You can hitchhike back into Gallup.

Your blood is steam.

Like steam, your blushing being seeps through your skin, leaving you with a stupid grin as you see Lyssa still sleeping, covered by the white air of the moon. You slap your forehead. "How could I even think of saying that . . . fuckhead."

Nothing has passed, Lyssa still sleeps. She hasn't forgiven or forgotten about what was said. What a fucking dickhead. You remember her in hard tears, she won't blow it off with a quick smile and tasteless joke. She won't blow it off at all. And you know that you won't forget anything with such excitement as well.

I can't believe she has a son. You look at her, sleeping under the white shades. A whole new being based on her . . . and some other fucker. That thought tears through any smile you can ever remember. Why couldn't she tell me? Nine fucking months of wearing her jacket, big fucking gangster clothes, just so she wouldn't have to tell me. Bitch form hell. You feel her betrayal teasingly poke at your bleeding trust. What a fucking lie.

You think of all she was to you once before. When she was what you thought about before going to sleep. How your lives were seemingly parallel. A great painted landscape with no faults. But it crashed.
The muscles in you face coil, flinching your face at the thought. She tore it all down, and smiled as she stood over the crumbs of what you and her once were. You know that she left nothing for you. The bones of your body pulse with your anger.

There is nothing left The meaning of the words ring in your body with a ripple you can't forget. What can be left. You picture yourself standing with Lyssa, holding a crying infant. She has to go to work, babysit. Your day is over.

Through it all, one phrase carves itself into all you hear. A phrase with you wish to wash away with any tears you have. Lyssa's voice, a pleasant and light as always, "Do you remember that time when . . ." You know that's all that's left. Living off of memories, like sick junkies, licking the smooth side of a broken syringe.

Fuck.

Lyssa twitches. She wakes, lightly sobbing in her drowsy state.

"What if he's dead? How serious does a lung infection get?:" Her voice is excited a light, showing her torment.

"What the hell are you talking about?" The words spill from your mouth with a glare of light which you know has no source. A simple phrase which you were expected to say.

"I just. . . I had this fucking feeling that he died. I can't fucking shake it! I men, oh my god." Her voice trembles with a sharpness that covers her whole image. "My baby." Lyssa cries with such a solidness you wish to cry along with her, share each sob with a unisoned breath. "Can you hurry up please?" Her words struggle to sound clear.

"C'mon." You feel more empty words. "Just don't think like th-"

"Shut the fuck up!" Lyssa breaks your words with a fierceness which makes you feel blood. "You don't give a fuck! You said it yourself. I'm just another worthless loser, bent on raising something to need. You fucker." Her words seem to slice through you with her blunt tears. "God. I can't believe I can even sit here in the same car with you. I hate you. I hate your fucking. . ." She soon follows her tears into heavy sobs. "And he's dead." Her words show her struggle.

Dead. You are left with the last word. What if he is dead. Although it is a terrible thought, you know it is entirely possible. They don't fly all newborns from Gallup to Albuquerque for nothing. Deep in your mind, you feel a certainty for this thought. Through a tattered blanket covering your emotions you realize something that surrounds you in a hollow fear. You hold nothing for this thought. A shot through your bones in a chilled realization.

He's dead and you grimace at yourself because you don't care.

I am shit. You look at Lyssa who still is sleeping.

"I'm sorry," you wish to say, but you have nothing to apologize for. How could I think of this shit? She'll say what she'll say. How could I think like that?

You chest feels a relieving shiver which you relish.

"Hey. It's me."

You knew the voice, instantly, form the first pushy breath of her greeting.

"Hi!" Why did I say it like that? Any fucking higher then her ears will bleed all over her fuckin phone. "What're you doing?"

You could easily hear her smile from her words. "I'm at the hospital. I had my baby boy last night!"
The air in your lungs froze, you sigh shaded. Yes, I heard her right. "Baby boy?" Idiot! That's what she said! "Are you serious?" You feel the need to round of your part of the conversation to cover up your stupidity.

"Yes." You heard the point when Lyssa lost her smile. "Hey. Can you come pick me up?"
As you drove to the hospital you felt shame for your smile. She has a son. The thought tagged onto everything you looked at, like street graffiti. This is a fucking surprise.

"He's in Albuquerque." Her loss showed as a shade in her eyes as she told you the story. "I didn't even get to see him. He has some kind of lung infection and they had to fly him to Albuquerque, and I need a ride over there."

You spoke to her purely out of reflex, your words coming out sounding to you like primitive mumbles.

"She drove over there this morning, as soon as she seen I was all right. You know how moms are."

More mumbles from your mouth.

"Well. They made me stay here. But I really have to go over there. I'm dying here. Please." Her voice rang like a chorus of light bells. You knew, from the moment of her breathy "Hey" on the phone, everything is inevitable.

"Why are you so quiet?" Even before you could get of town, she knew your mind. "Hell. You must be shocked, but don' t fucking clam up on me. I need someone to talk to, especially now."

A clock ticked in your mind. A glass pendulum swaying over your world. You felt it crack with every tick, a shiny split with the tock. ". . .someone to talk to. . ." It shattered with a smiling defeat.

"Well fuck. It appears that you had nine goddamn months to talk. What was wrong then?" Your thoughts flowed from your mouth with such ease you felt a version deep fear of what would be said. Her words were nothing but a bug in your face. "Shut up. I can't fucking believe this. You hide something like this from me for nine fucking months. You hid it. And when you finally tell me there is a big fucking catch to it all. I have to take you two hundred and thirty miles out of my way."

You now remember your words with such passion it frightens you.

"You're just acting like all those loser bitches back in Gallup. 'Fuck me. I need to be needed. I'm a loser bitch.' I can't believe this. Everything we despised, that's you. Some loser, lowlife whore."

Your whirlwind ended with the faint sounds of Lyssa's sobs. Not a word was said. You looked to her to see her body hunched over, just so her face was hidden by her dark hair. Tears fell into her lap. Your eyes began to slowly burn as the coolness of tears pricked your tired sigh.

"I'm sorry," you wanted to say. If not to break the deafening rhythm of pure silence, to prove to yourself it was your voice talking to her.

The hospital is in sight, a pleasurable feeling to see the end of a tortured drive. Lyssa keeps her head leaning on the window as her eyes follow the sign to Presbyterian Hospital. You know she feels your words, still stabbing at her contempt.

You also feel her silence. Sharp in its bluntness. It keeps you in an empty light, forever wondering on her next movements. The parking lot lies just ahead. What is going to be said is going to be said soon.

The car slows down in front of the hospital. Your breathing turns ragged at the thought of Lyssa finally making a move.

"Aren't you going inside?" Her voice is washed in a blue sadness which shudders your feelings. "I didn't just want a ride from you. Be here with me." Her words crush you, rubbing a dull razor over your memories.

"Yeah." You shared the same tint in her voice. "Just let me park the car first."

Lyssa's next words, you know, will forever leave their mark on you.

"I'm sorry."

You feel the flesh inside your body expand in a motion that can only be released in pathetic sobs. You nod your understanding, fearing your sadness is heavily lacing your voice.

You watch Lyssa enter the hospital, still fighting your emotions. You now know what it will be like from now on. You watch Lyssa's every footstep as she walks to the glass doors which marks the fate of you and her. You see her hair in a lazy bounce from the shaded breeze. You wish you could bring yourself to walk with her. To sit with her as she worries about her new life. But the phrase cringes the blood inside of you. The phrase which will be the last comment from the both of you forever.

"Do you remember that time when. . ." You say it just to see if it can ever have its place in the rest of your life, but it splits your tongue with a disgusting flatness that you will always despise.
You drive out the parking lot, carefully watching the road yet trying to keep your mind off of the painted lines.

­ Jason Begay

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"The ones we call crazy are really smarter than most people. That's why we lock them up."

"If they can't take a joke ­ fuck 'em." ­ William S. Yellow Robe, Jr