Americana

The day I died, I spent correcting a fictionalized compilation of my brother's career so far.
By trade, I was a copywriter.
In the taxi on the way back, I decided to mix booze and pills to the beat of Olivia Rodrigo's latest song-which, surprisingly enough, was about something quite similar.
Had I made it home that night, I would have described a room not all that different from the chaotic mess of the apartment Tomás would jump from three hours later.
But the cab crashed at the gas station. And if the impact hadn't been enough, the fire would have finished the job. Or, later in the ER, the lethal acid sitting in my stomach.
From here on out, there are only fictions.