You set the package down, deciding that you want nothing more to do with all of this. You want to abandon everything. So you run. You run, run, run down the dirt driveway of your house, run down the secluded street that leads to your residence, run down this hidden avenue tucked away from society, run, run, you run away from everything you own, everything you know, you run from it all, run, run until you're out of breath... ... ... ... ... ... ...
You have nothing left. You're spent. You collapse on the ground, nearly a mile and a half from your house, lying on your back, face toward the sky aware that all of the heavens are watching you and you're watching them back, returning the steely stare of contempt for the fact that you have taken a human life. You shove your shame aside and stare back, defiant in the face of the greatness that is apparent in the vast expanse of space above you, aware that all of it could swallow you, swallow you whole in one tiny bite, no problem, and you'd be like you never existed, alone, left, betrayed by your own destructive nature. You are alone. Singularly. Solitary. Just like the stranger that is lying faceless in a pool of his own blood and flesh, identity taken by your bullet, the canvas smeared, ruined, erased, malformed. Broken. You slowly rise to your feet, still staring into the sky, still absorbed in your rebellion. You never see the truck that is going 90mph down this broken stretch of road, as it SMACKS into The Tree that is right next to you, exploding into flames, with shards of shrapnel flying in myriad directions. You dive away from the blast as a piece of metal nicks your ear. You bleed red blood from your ear. It is trickling down the side of your face, painting the picture of guilt with the same red that painted the stranger's demise, painted with the same brush of irony that has created the canvas upon which this scene is built.
You lie face down in the grass ditch on the opposite side of the road, slowly recovering your sense, slowly regaining awareness. You are still bleeding red blood from your ear. It has slowed, but is still trickling down the side of your face. You lie there, thinking about the poor soul, drunk from some party, wasted beyond recognition, foolishly getting into his Ford pickup, turning the keys to the ignition, cranking the engine, pulling out of the driveway of the bar; tavern; pub; restaurant; now driving down the abandoned stretch of road that is home to the home of a killer, unaware that in mere moments the excessive speed at which he is driving will cause him to lose control of the truck, swerve to the left, overcompensate and turn hard right, into the trunk, the trunk of the old oak standing sentry on the side of the road, watching the windshield erupt into millions of tiny pieces, watching the glass break and fly and dismantle and careen into his face, ripping the flesh from the skull as the impact reacts with the engine and gas tank, causing the truck to burst into flame, searing and burning the now broken body of the driver. You rub your eyes. The image doesn't go away. The movie described continues to play as you move, groggily rising once again. You take a few steps and then fall,........................................................................on the way down you whisper, "I'm sorry," into the night air,............you hear and feel your skull crack on the concrete simultaneously.
You're out cold...
...
...
A light is up ahead....there is no tunnel.....just light.....what is it....ah.......bright....hurts......
You......
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