Happiness Is Always Temporary

I'm in the car with you.

You're driving, going too fast. I jokingly tell you to slow down, but what's the point? We're on a lonely country road with no one in sight. There's no danger of being pulled over for speeding.

The music is loud, too. We're both singing along to Taylor Swift. I remember when we first met - you hated her songs, but I wore you down eventually. So now here we are. Singing. Talking. Laughing. Living.

The afternoon sun is bright. Really bright. It shines through the windshield and over into the open top of the car, warming our skin and sunburning our faces. I pull down the sun-visor but it doesn't help. I suddenly regret leaving my sunglasses at home.

I see you squinting. You can't see, either. It shouldn't be much of a problem. After all, we're the only ones on the road.

But then, we're not.

I see the truck before you do. It's a big one, Ford F-150, towing a trailer. The driver must be talking on his cellphone, or he must be drunk, or maybe he's just not paying attention. Whatever the reason, he's driving too fast. Just like us.

The truck drifts onto our side of the road. It's close. I scream. You frantically jerk the wheel to swerve out of the way, but it's too late.

The truck hits us head on.



I wake up in the hospital a few days later. The lights are too bright. Just like the sun.

Panic strikes. I remember the collision, but little else. My heart rate increases drastically; I can hear the monitor's frantic beeping. A nurse runs in and quickly fills a needle with some clear liquid, then sticks it in my arm. The effect is instantaneous, and my panic melts away. She gives me some water, and then I ask what happened.

A broken arm. A sprained ankle. A monstrous concussion (I believe it, judging from the agonizing pounding in my head). Small cuts and abrasions all over my body.

They'll heal, the nurse says. Apparently I was rather lucky. I try to sit up, but the nurse stops me. It's better for my head if I just lie still.

Finally, I work up the nerve to ask about you.

The nurse breaks eye contact, her fingers fidgeting with nervous energy. She takes a deep breath.

I was lucky. You were not.

I should cry. Yell, scream. Beat my fists on the bed. Anything. But I don't. Or rather, I can't. My body feels frozen, like it's been encased in a thick layer of ice. Only my mouth moves, forming a single word.

         "When?"

The nurse throws me a look of pity.

         "He was thrown out of the car during the collision. He hit his head..." The nurse trails off, probably trying to decide how much more to tell me. "He died on impact...didn't suffer."

She looks at me again. I say nothing. I think I'm in shock. But the nurse simply pats me on my good leg, tells me that she'll be back later to give me more painkillers, and leaves the room.



I'm in the hospital for another week. People come and go. My parents visit for a while, but leave when I refuse to acknowledge either of them. Even your parents come. They talk to me, though I don't reply, saying that this must be so hard for me. That it's good that I was with you in your last moments.

I want to explode. How dare these kind, loving people feel sorry for me? I was with you. I didn't tell you about the truck until it was too late. They should hate me...but they don't.



I leave the hospital in a wheelchair despite my protests. The nurse simply shakes her head and pushes me to the lobby, where my parents are waiting. They help me to the car and drive me home.



After a couple more weeks at my parents' house, they finally relent and let me go back to the apartment. Our apartment.

It's just like we left it. Dirty dishes in the sink, most them crusty with food. A few books and magazines lie on the coffee table, one of them open. I nearly cry when I see the title.

You always loved the poems of Edgar Allan Poe. I thought they were too morbid, but I still let you read one or two to me whenever you wanted.



I lie awake for hours, simply thinking. The bed sheets still smell like you.



Time passes in a blur. I've been able to go to work for a couple of weeks now, but I never get anything done.

I'm always thinking about you.

The way you always picked me up from work because you clocked out earlier.

Now I have to drive myself in a used car I bought.

The way you would stay up late and watch movies with me until I fell asleep on your lap.

I rarely watch television anymore.

The way you would hold me during a storm because I was afraid of the thunder.

There have been three thunderstorms since I came home. I cry in the bathtub until they're over.

You were a part of me, the one person that made me whole. But now you're gone. And I don't think I can take it anymore.

I wait until after work. The drive back to our apartment is the loneliest it's ever been, but I don't mind so much this time. After all, I won't be alone much longer.

I still have a bottle of painkillers left from the hospital. I stopped taking them when I realized that they only numbed physical pain. What good was that if I was still suffering?

It's a clear night. No chance of rain. I pour myself a tall glass of water and take it into the living room. The pills are waiting.

The water takes away the bitter taste of medicine, and then there's nothing to do but wait. I smile as I think of you. We'll be together again soon. For the first time in a month, I turn on the television and start a movie.

I fall asleep before the beginning credits are over.

You walk into my dreams and open your arms. I run gladly into them and we embrace.

I'm finally happy.