conte [issue one - MAY DAY] - Closer Than They Appear

Everyone’s going to know and they’re going to hate him. The whole world is going to hate him because they’re going to see what a fucking asshole he is and what he made me do and they’re going to hate him for what he did to this good girl. They’re going to hate him for what he did to this princess. You bastard. You motherfucking bastard! Goddamn you!

The car feels airborne now and I think I’m shouting, and I swear I can see the light from the headlights bend as the car goes into a spin and I wonder something about how far light travels in a year, but the thought melts quickly away like the snow on the glass in front of me. My body’s fighting now, my feet are tapping the brake and the gas and my hands are making their adjustments to the steering wheel, but I know it’s over for the moment. All I can do now is hang on while the car does its thing and hope for the best until it comes to a stop. And that is going to happen. The car will stop. There’s nowhere for it to go on that side of the overpass. Now it’s just a question of when I will stop and if it will be out here in a lane or over there against the concrete divider. Now it’s just a question of whether I can keep my head long enough to grab my chance when it comes. It doesn’t have to be much: just a patch of road dry enough for my tires to grab, a patch of ice thin enough for a tire to punch through and grab the overpass, a warm spot, something, just that proverbial lucky break suckers like me are never supposed to get but somehow always do. That’s what I’m focusing on: being ready to act when the time comes and as the car sails across the dashed line, as the front quarterpanel on my side breaks into the next lane, I feel a small surge of relief well up inside me because I know I’m alone out here. There isn’t any traffic close to me now, so even if I do keep on sailing until I hit the concrete divider, I should still be able to drive away. That’s what I’m thinking as the car picks up speed and the back end starts cutting an arc and I can feel the car moving across the overpass as it spins. If the moment doesn’t come, I’m heading straight for the concrete divider with only the plastic and the steel of the car and the (what is this, nylon?) nylon of the seat belt to keep me from flying through the windshield or through the window to my left. It occurs to me that I didn’t bring Melanie’s baby-seat this morning, but I’m sure I strapped her in with a seatbelt, so the worst that can happen is that we’ll get jerked a little bit when the car hits the divider, which probably won’t happen at all, but I’m not so sure now as I suffer images of smoke pouring from beneath the creased hood of the car and of the car hitting the concrete divider head-on and flipping over the divider and of the car skidding into the divider so hard that all four tires explode, but none of that’s going to happen. That’s what I’m telling myself now as I spin the steering wheel to my right. That’s not going to happen. I’m not going to damage the frame and I’m not going to pop any tires and I’m not going to break the radiator or flip the car over the concrete divider and I’m going to drive away from this because I can not get stuck here. I can not get stuck on this stupid overpass and sit in a wrecked car and wait for the police while men drive past and pass judgment on me, thinking their stupid little condescending thoughts about women drivers. There will be, at the worst, a crunch and the car’ll come to a quick hard stop and I’ll get thrown a little bit, but that’s going to be it. I’ll wait for the truck to go past and then I’ll get the car pointed in the right direction and we’ll get on our way, Melanie and me. After all, her daddy wants to see her and he can’t be kept waiting. That’s what I’m thinking as the car crosses the middle of the second lane.

Page 7