Last night, God kept me awake until 1 am. She wouldn’t let me sleep until I had written a draft of a story. It was messy and full of holes, but I got enough of it down on the Notes app of my phone, held inches from my squinted eyes in the dark, that She finally gave me some peace.

This past weekend, two local teens were killed in a single-car accident when their truck ran into a ditch and struck a power pole. They were both ejected from the truck and killed instantly. It was a Saturday night and alcohol use was suspected.

I wondered if their last night was one of euphoric bliss before it was cut short, a joy-ride turned tragedy. I wondered what else drives teenagers wildly into the night. I wondered what other monsters lurk in their heads, staving off their sleep and futures.

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“The Last Thing“

The last thing Harlan James saw before he died was the sky-blue glass beads of his rosary, normally kept draped around the stick shift of his beat up, old Camaro, suspended as if in direct defiance of gravity inches from his face as his car flipped three times. 

Moments earlier the sweet, heavy scent of whiskey pushed its way into every inch of the car as he exhaled slowly through his nose, a weak grimace after each pull from the bottle. Caramel and overly-ripe bananas. Grandpa and cigarettes. 

On the seat next to him laid a rectangular box holding the new, far-too-expensive computer his grandfather bought him in anticipation of his graduation. I’m proud of you, Harlan. We all are. The old man’s sky-blue eyes sparkled as he pushed the box onto Harlan’s lap. Grandpa could always find a lie, so Harlan dropped his eyes to his grandfather’s hand. The ash of his cigarette tumbled in a slight breeze as it fell. Harlan was hypnotized by the lazy drift and followed it down until it hit the wood of the porch below. His grandfather cleared his throat, and Harlan barely caught a glimpse of a scrutinizing stare before he mumbled a quick thanks and shuffled away.

One last thing, Mr. James. Unfortunately, you didn’t pass enough classes this term. I’m afraid you don’t have enough credits… Nervous to deliver the message, his left hand stroked the blue silk tie draped atop his belly as if it were trying to run away. Harlan kept his gaze there, on the truant tie and the hand that pinned it down. The sound of his chubby, calloused palms against the delicate blue threads grated on Harlan’s ears like grinding metal. He stood up abruptly, leaving the door and the principal’s mouth agape. 

One, two, three times, the faded red Camaro turned and toppled, ash caught in a breeze as it fell. The grass, trees, road, fence posts, telephone poles all blurred into colorless streaks set to a soundtrack of grinding metal and fragranced with caramel, overly-ripe bananas, and cigarettes. But Harlan watched only the sky-blue beads of his rosary, watched as they watched him, twisting and tumbling, floating before him until it was his time to float away, too.