on my way out, suitcase in hand, accidentally, i notice the sky. it is lit on fire. of course, there is no such thing as a bad omen. here, where the roads stretch out into nothing. we have pink flowers and brilliant sunsets; that is all there is to it / to us. so, no, not a bad omen. my eyes are tracing the clouds.
simultaneously, this is a terrible accident. this noticing, this observation. i do not want to see this place for what it is, only for what it can make of me, what it has made of me already: a traveler.
onwards.
the cold is relentless, brutally honest, snapping at my heels. still, no sign of trouble. here, where everything is a sign of trouble. a car with a yellow numberplate pulls up, and i fold myself into it, as small as possible. remain out of sight, until i am free from this place.
the car picks up speed, like every other car that travels these roads. we move fast. away. music numbs my awareness, setting a rhythm for tonight's journey. i have never been comfortable with speed. there is so much gray outside, bleeding together: a bridge, a road, a train, a sign, a truck-stop.
here, the land of empty highway and brightly-painted trucks. my heartbeat is at 120 kilometers per hour. the car doesn't stop. the fire in the sky goes out. darkness. the stars are blotted out by smoke from the factories, the invisible factories, hidden by miles of violently green farmland.
i have never understood where the people of this place work, or how they earn their money. i see men, drunk, always. i never see women.
before the car reaches him, i have already seen him. a man, standing on the crossing, swaying on his feet. deciding something. whether to stay, to go.
there is music in my ears. the car doesn't stop. i see him decide. he has chosen wrong. there is screaming, likely from me, guttural, hoarse, panicked. here, this place, this stupid fucking place. blood and guts on the windshield. silence. disbelief. i am about to throw up.
onwards.
a crowd gathers, picking the man off the windshield, sliding him into the car. i am forced into the front seat. the music has stopped, i am calling people, frantically, seizing up from terror, shivering from the cold.
here, where people come to drink, to drown in wasted potential, to watch the sky a-flame, to throw themselves at cars, to die.
i wait on a road below an underpass, outside a hospital, alone, suitcase in hand, for another yellow-numberplate car. in hindsight, i realize, the sky is burning, because we are being warned, every day. i tend to dramatize my life, but here, this place, is untouchable. i do not need to play with it.
i am safe, except that i will hate the sight of these roads forever. jaded traveler, cynical girl, awed by how luck can turn nasty, how people can come together to try and save life.
later, i am told the man survives. i remember bits of his brain on the windshield, spider-web cracks, blood everywhere, the thick scent of it lining the inside of the car. i remember the look in his eyes, the decision, the people crowding the car, the fear in my gut. of course, it is a great kindness, very kind, to lie to me. of course, he is dead.
onwards.
i travel for love. that is what finds me at the end of my journey. warm embrace, sympathy, a father reading his daughter's mind. food. a new place, still hopeless, but less dark. i gorge myself on this, here, the feeling of being looked after.
on my way back, sickened by my greed, my need for more, i raise my eyes to the sky. brilliant orange, maybe it will calm me down, maybe this place is the more that i need. the car is speeding again, bringing me closer to where this story began.
i step out of the car, restored to this place, here, where i will remain for several years, a constant destination. i stumble. i can still feel the road beneath me, racing forwards.
something lands on my jacket. small, white, gray, almost un-noticeable. i reach for it, and it turns to dust, and i look up. more greets me, falling from the sky. the brilliant orange, fire-sky, giving me ash-rain. here, this place, straight out of towering myth, home to world-defining battles of old, although it doesn't look like it, except the raging sky and the open fields, and the swarms of insects, and the desolate roads, and you know what, maybe it does. my first snow-fall, ash-fall, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. more.
onwards.