Love In The Suicide Lane
By Thomas Fullmer
I always meant to talk to her, say something to her, at least introduce myself to her and see where it all went. But when it came down to it I was a coward. I could handle a tough business or sales meeting, but when it came to the woman I longed to be with, I could do nothing.
I would see her walking down the street with a group of friends, laughing, and tossing her head back as she did so. Her long dark auburn hair trailing down her gently curved back. I wished that I knew what joke they all shared.
I would see her in the grocery store, just a few carts ahead of me as she chatted gaily with the cashier in such a relaxed, off handed manner. But I never got close enough to say anything to her. Never got to talk to her until the day she died, until the day I killed her.
I was on my way home from an important business meeting in my silver BMW convertible. It had been one of those long drawn out things where everyone has to get in their two cents worth, regardless of the relevance to our profit margin.
I was tired, and it was dark and raining, the top was up, and my windshield wipers weren’t working particularly well. It was more smear than clear. My cell phone began to chime its happy tune and I reached in my suit pocket to retrieve it. I fumbled with it and it fell onto the seat. I went for it, and in that instant I took my eyes off the road momentarily distracted from my driving.
The car, as if on its own volition, or perhaps out of some memory of what it should do at this point, drifted into the turn lane, in preparation for turning into my condo complex. When I looked up at the road, I was startled to see in my headlights the beautiful face that had haunted my wildest fantasies. Only it was filled with shock and terror as she was in the suicide lane.
The car hit her full force, throwing her aside. The thud that broke her body will reverberate forever in my memory. It was a sickening, bone crunching thud, which sent a chill down my spine. The car skidded on water as it slowly came to a stop and died with the headlights still on.
I jumped out of my vehicle, and rushed back to where she lay on the edge of the suicide lane, the turning lane between the two sides of traffic. Was she still alive? I knew her body had to be broken. How could it not be after a bone shattering impact like that?
Hoping beyond hope, I rushed to her side, careful not to slip on the pavement, and lifted her head up to gaze into a blood streaked face. It was the most beautiful face I had ever seen. It dripped of blood. It tormented me that I had marred such beauty. But, thank God or the demons, she was still alive. She still breathed. Her eyes were still open, and she gazed up at me and mouthed the word: “Why?”
Why what? Why had I hit her? Why hadn’t I paid more attention to the road? Why hadn’t I talked to her when I had the opportunity? Why had God allowed this to happen? Why what? She didn’t say, all she did was mouth the word again as blood ran out the corner of her mouth and down her lovely, soft cheek.
“I’ll get help!” I cried over the thunder of the rain that fell like sheets upon us. I couldn’t just lay her head back down on the cold, wet pavement. I hurriedly took my Armani suit jacket off, and use it to support her head. Then I dashed frantically for my car where the phone remained on the floor where I had dropped it when I had hit her.
Once in the car, I couldn’t find my phone. I looked everywhere, but no phone. I was frantic! Where was it? The thought came to me to feel under the seat. I did. My phone had scooted underneath the driver’s seat. Using the lights in the car, I dialed 911, and then not wanting to leave her for too long, I hurried back out to where she lay bleeding on the pavement as the phone rang the emergency number.
