Something’s wrong with the brake line.
That’s the last thought that goes through my mind before I lose control of the car. I stomp frantically on the brake pedal to no avail, trying to delay what seems like an inevitable disaster. I’m not slowing down whatsoever.
A mini-sedan is parked at the red light ahead, driver oblivious, unsuspecting, unaware of the danger rapidly approaching from behind. As we get closer, I see the faint outline of a crib in the backseat. Shit.
I pull sharply on the steering wheel, trying to swerve around this innocent bystander. It’s close, so close that I can identify the abject horror that flashes through her eyes that I can see through her rearview mirror, right before I hit the metal railings and the tires give way.
The car flips over, tumbling off the side of the highway, rolling around eight full revolutions before crashing into a burning pile of scrap metal below, with me trapped inside it. What a way to go.
// Day Two //
I find myself getting in the same car, heading in the same direction, driving down the same highway. Except there’s this weird sense of déjà vu. Didn’t I crash this car and die? I must’ve been mistaken, I tell myself.
Until I start seeing the mini-sedan up ahead. No no no no no, I tell myself, stepping on the brakes which I already know have stopped working. I know what’s coming next already, but I can’t stop it from happening.
I pull on the steering wheel. Swerve. See the terror in her eyes. Hit the railings. Tumble off the highway. Again.
// Day Three //
Alright, let’s try this again. No more fucking around. Brake line, huh?
I make sure to scoot under the car and check if it’s working before I get in. Can’t be too safe.
Then I see the mini-sedan in front of me again. Hit the brake pedal. It’s not working. Fuck.
Steering wheel, swerve, railings, off the highway — you know the drill.
// Day Forty Nine //
I can’t for the love of whatever automobile God figure out what’s wrong with my car.
I’ve checked the pedal. The brake line. The engine lights. Every-fucking-thing.
And yet it still keeps happening. It’s getting kinda therapeutic, really.
Sedan. Steering wheel. Swerve. Crash.
// Day Eight Hundred and Twenty One //
I step out of my house, intent not to let yesterday’s events happen again.
Then I stop myself before I get into the car. As much as I want to, maybe it’s just not a good idea.
Fuck it. I take the bus to work instead, and finally, finally, nothing out of the ordinary happens.