Cars

I never get into cars anymore.

It all started when I was looking at one of those pop art posters that don’t have any pictures on them. You know, you’re supposed to stare at them until a 3D image pops out. Well, I never saw anything until one day I had a little too much to smoke.

I was on a kite soaring down the aisles just staring at the wares. When it happened. I finally saw something popping out of one of those posters, except it wasn’t a picture, it was a scene: lights, cameras, action. A man rushing down the stairs to catch a train. The doors closing; him trying to stop and slipping and falling between the platform and train, the train moving and twisting him apart.

Crazy, huh? But it happened. An hour later. On my way home.

It shook me up pretty bad: the heaves, the shakes, the mumbo jumbos. Next morning, I thought maybe it was a bad dream, so I picked up the Daily Times to check it out. Big mistake. On one of the pages there was a picture, the kind, you know, with a hidden picture inside.

It was a replay. A boy’s bike on a forest trail, thrown down. Fifty meters ahead, a cop’s motorcycle on its stand. Blood everywhere. A big man in a uniform digging a shallow grave. The boy tossed in, dirt covering him. A final pat on the mound with the shovel.

This was even worse. I was biting my knuckles. I had no doubt it was gonna happen, it was too real.

Next evening, there it was. I was watching the news about a missing boy, Jimmy O’Donovan, last seen talking to a motorcycle cop, except I knew it was no cop. Then, the TV went snap, crackle, and pop. Colors, forms, and screams rushed out. Roll ‘em, bring out the popcorn, another horror flick. This time, from behind, a man sitting in a car. A shadow. Then, a fishing line around his neck. The line biting into the flesh. His hand going to his neck, clawing at the line.

I saw his face. It was mine.