She Was a Picture

Kedrin didn't call his dreams "dreams," they were in no way comprised of imagination. They weren't flashes of images or in any way abstract. Every night it was like a high definition video streaming before his eyes. It felt so real to him. It was real. How could he forget the night he found his wife on the kitchen floor, on the cool tile, her heart not beating, her sweet, assertive voice not greeting him home, her aura completely black? The same thing happened every night, he closed his eyes, only to have them opened again as he found his wife on the tile. He always woke up before the water from the sink faucet trickled the blood off his fingers and down the drain.

His neighbors hadn't spoken to him in months. They had never even heard him mourn, they'd never seen any expression on his face since that night. His boss had fired him months ago, he never showed up for work, yet still, every morning he showered, made breakfast, went to his car and took off. No one knew where he went, and sadly no one seemed to care. He returned every evening at 5:30, went inside to the kitchen, washed his hands, had dinner, and went to bed. The same thing every day. He hadn't applied for a new job, he just drove, drove all day. He was close to bankruptcy, and the day before he received an eviction notice. Still, nothing was changed in his routine. His neighbors thought he was paranoid. But did he have a reason to be?
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Kedrin backed out of his driveway swiftly. The wheels creaked as he did so; he forgot to pop off the emergency break. The car jerked forward as he set the gears into drive and took off. He careened around the cars parked in the street. He always sat erect and confident in the worn seat of the small sedan. "Shoot!" he said calmly as he braked to a stop after the light turned yellow. Kedrin never swore, or pressed on the accelerator to beat a yellow light. He checked the meters on the dash: gas was full. At the green light he took off, leaving his neighborhood behind. His palms sweated. Crossing the intersection terrified him. Every car that passed him in the opposite lane seemed to move in slow motion. To him they were more than cars. The steering wheel wavered as cars passed, a little to the left, a little to the right. He saw every face that passed by, every man, every woman, every child in their carseat, every family. He always saw faces when he drove, and it seemed to be the only thing he noticed apart from the stop signs and traffic lights. His hands slipped slowly to the left towards an oncoming car, but his head screamed and he steadied the car in the lane. A warmness engulfed his face, and a few drops of sweat touched his eyeball, stinging him. Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh! All he saw were faces passing by. Ahead an eighteen-wheeler traveled toward him. "Where's a face?" His brain screamed that question. His eyes focused towards the drivers side of the cabin. The glass was black. "A black aura?" his brain troubled. No face could be seen, no life, no movement, just an object running to him at 50 miles per hour. Nothing within him screamed. He watched his hands as they drifted to the left with the steering wheel. Confusion grasped his face as this happened. "What's worse?" There was no slow motion as the truck approached, just the sight of his car entering the other lane followed by the sound of the truck blaring its horn. Was he paranoid? If so, did he have a reason to be? He lifted his eyes from gazing at his hands and looked at the black glass of the truck cabin. Right before he closed his eyes he felt as if the last few seconds had slowed down. But there was no time for confusion to set in. Staring at the back of his eyelids, he watched the colors dancing, shifting, morphing, jumping, and changing. It was like a black aura with hundreds of colors speckled throughout. A still image of his wife flashed among the colors. She was the picture he saw as his body was violently hurled forward.

What could be worse than losing the one you love?