I Should Be Dead

It was just a drive home from work—just like any other day that ends in 'y'. I was tired. Not the kind of tired that yawns and stretches. The kind that sits in your bones like concrete. Covered in filth, reeking of steam and fat and burnt motor oil, all I wanted was a shower that hit like a waterfall and a bed that felt like forgiveness.

I don’t remember much. Just the sound of the rumble strips tearing me out of whatever sleep-dead daze I’d slipped into, and the image of a cattle trailer growing far too fast in the windshield. After that, it all bleeds together—metal, motion, silence, pain. The sort of blur that rewrites your calendar and carves a new scar into the calendar of your life.