There it was again, that shadowy form on the side of the road. Maybe I was being a chicken, but I could never seem to muster up enough courage to pull over. I was sure it was a man. Even in the gloom, I could see the wide shoulders and bulky limbs. His arm was raised, I assume in an attempt to hail a ride.
This particular stretch of country road, framed on either side by memorial crosses, was eerie enough without the added specter. I wondered where he came from – there was nothing but forest for miles around. Every time I passed by, which was often, he was there.
I gazed into the rear-view mirror trying to catch another glimpse of him, and cursed as my tires met with the lip of the road. I laughed in relief as I managed to correct the vehicle. I could almost hear my dad berating, “you need to drive more carefully!”
I passed another cross, number four. There were six in total. Six lives that had been lost to the pavement and foliage.
Crosses five and six passed by, and I was relieved to be almost home.
The road curved and I tried to blink sudden lethargy away. I felt so heavy, so tired. More miles passed, and I went on autopilot. The dotted yellow line that passed by on my left was so hypnotizing.
One cross, then another, slipped past on the right. One. Two.
Hang on a moment, hadn’t I already passed those?
The road was rather redundant in its entirety, but those crosses made this portion of the highway rather unique. I looked to the left, and sure enough there was cross number three.
Confused, I slowed to a stop next to cross number four. I looked around, trying to process what was happening. I noticed then that my car lights were illuminating a spot of white buried in the dense foliage. It appeared to be another cross. Number seven.
I exited the car, and cautiously approached. Kneeling before the painted wood, I brushed away the vines which entangled it, and read the name printed there. It was my own.
In denial and fear, I ran back toward the haven of my car. Peeling away from the side of the road, my foot floored the gas pedal. I could hear my father again telling me, “I swear, one of these days you’ll end up dead in a ditch.”
The dew slicked road proved detrimental to my tires, and the vehicle skidded off the pavement. Small saplings snapped under the rolling car, but the more aged trees didn’t. With a sickening bang, I came to a stop.
A moment late, I found myself on my feet outside the remains of the metal shell. Dizzily, I made my way back to the edge of the road. I saw a pair of headlights approaching, and I lifted my hand to summon their help.
But they didn’t stop.