In the dream I’m standing at the intersection again. There’s the green truck, barreling towards the stop sign. The driver, otherwise preoccupied, with his head lolling back and his eyes half closed will never even brake.
The little red car will never see it coming, they will never realize he’s flying the wrong way down the one-way street.
I don’t need to watch the scene again and again to see the fear and recognition cross their faces. An anger bubbles inside me. That poor girl is no more than twelve years old when she flies through the passenger’s side windshield.
I can see the blood pooling by the tires and feel the splatters warm on my cheeks. The scene is the kind they say you never want to look away from but you know you should.
Even in my dreams I’m too shocked to do anything. There is no springing into action, no saving lives.
Even in my dreams they all die.
But I don’t hear the grinding metal and crunching bones. No, all I can hear … as loud as day even though I’m not wearing my headphones, is Aerosmith.
“Honey, you’re headin’ down a one-way street … And I gotta go the other way …”
My sheets are always soaked by time I wake because even in my dreams I can’t seem to go the other way.
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