Before the Fall

I always wondered about things dealing with the afterlife. Never truly had a clue, only had one mind set: it is what it is. But everything changed sooner than later.

That cold, foggy Monday morning of December 13th, I ended up driving towards the city of Las Cruces, forcefully committed to an ideology of constant self torture, of having become the boy who cried wolf endless times until no one, not even my family, nor even a kind stranger would believe in me. I lied to myself. I naively decided that I would be better off leaving my dark, barren home city of Hell Paso for anything. I had packed a few bags of clothes, a bottle of whiskey, a pack of menthols, and a battle shredded ego with a submissive chaotic mind. I drove like a maniac as I kept guzzling down the bitter, sour, pungent taste of the whiskey, weaving in and out of traffic at high speeds. I wasn’t exactly drunk, I was more numb than anything. Tears fell, a sudden gloom took over and the wheel soon took it’s own destination.

The wheel, like a wild horse stampede, jolted and vibrated from the inability to control itself, driving itself straight towards danger. Everything before me played out like a flash of scenes slowly fitted into an old movie reel with no music, with no emotion or color. The first clip: the car tilted to the far left, allowing me to catch a glimpse of the cement barrier dividing the highway. The second clip: an upside image of the world in front of me as the car toppled over and over, breaking apart into pieces. The final clip: the bloodied image of a mangled motionless corpse in front of me with a trail of blood and guts behind it.

I knew it was me; a part of me laying there on the icy floor. Whatever was left of the vehicle was up in smoke consumed by a fiery blaze that could only remind me of one thing: hell. I felt nothing, only felt a sense of gloom consume me in totality. The sun wasn’t shining and the air no longer felt cold.

I felt something strange behind so I turned around. And there, in the vacant snow covered highway was a small boy kneeling before a cross on the other side, planted on the ground with flowers and vibrant decorations. He turned around and looked directly into my eyes, making me feel his soul, his energy conflicting with mine. His eyes wore a bleak darkness: an expression of sorrow and pain.

Don’t waste your only chance, he said, sending thunder down my spine.

I awoke with a massive headache sitting down in my car, in front of my house. A cigarette in mouth, an empty bottle in my hand. It is what it is.

 

 

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