By Ricky Jade
*Content Warning: Suicidal Ideation*
“I’ll see you on Wednesday,” I say.
I kiss the boy that I love. He takes me in his arms, tighter than he usually would in public, his post-sport sweat uncomfortable but his touch not. We say bye and that we love each other. We get into our cars.
His headlights flick on before mine. His car wheels crack gravel as his eyes finds mine through both our tinted windows. He gives me a wave and a smile. I watch him pass by me.
There’s a sheen on my car windscreen. Water droplets so small they could be a little pixie’s tears. The white floodlights of the soccer field make it shine silver. I take off and it disappears.
It isn’t visible again until I drive towards a streetlight and a shimmer glistens near the bottom of my dash, turning water to gold for just a moment before the pseudo-sunlight disappears again. I don’t reach for the trigger that controls the windscreen wipers. I just watch. It’s beautiful.
I said that I would see him on Wednesday, but it seems impossibly far away. Not because I can’t bear to be without him, or I want to be with him every second, or something like that. But because there is so much that I have to do until then. And I just don’t feel capable.
It doesn’t matter what I have to do, it’s just that these tasks exist. Work, chores, errands, uni, socialising. Existing. These 10 minutes in the car before I get home is the final countdown before the reality of life approaches once again, where I am alone. Where my brain is alone.
Too Cool to Die by Post Malone plays through the sound system. An oddly ambient song.
Bushland lines the left side of the road, the façade of the fields where we just played soccer. I speed up as I reach the peak of a hill and let the car accelerate as gravity takes it back down. I swerve the wheel left, bumping and scraping over rocks and into the trees, wrapping my car around a tree trunk. But actually, I don’t. Instead, my windscreen shimmers with gold dust as my foot rests on the brake at a set of lights.
I turn right and follow the traffic until the road ends and wants me to turn again. I push down on the accelerator and fly past the end of the road, straight into the church in front of me. But actually, I don’t. Instead, I take the corner with a little too much speed but without a scratch otherwise.
I drive down the road behind someone going a little too slow. I push on my accelerator again and smash into their back and crumple both our cars in. But actually, I don’t. Instead, I lean back in my seat and listen to music.
At the next intersection, I run the red light and get t-boned by an oncoming truck. But actually, I don’t.
I swerve through my street. But actually, I don’t.
I swing into my driveway and crash into my house. But actually, I don’t.
But actually, I don’t.
I don’t.
I don’t.
Instead, I am home. Sensor lights flicker across the water on my windscreen one final time. The shine is so warm it could be sparks.
But the pop of the music stops. The buzz of the engine fades. My breath stills. And everything is quiet.
My keys jingle as I realise, I never properly closed my car door. I slam it closed as I exit, harder than I should.
I notice misty rain. The tiny droplets sit atop the hairs on my arm, not touching the oily sweat and heat of my skin.
I brush it off. Like the intrusive thoughts.
Ricky Jade is (mostly) a life writer. Her life experiences are weird, and it’s more than enough inspiration for her writing. Her nonfiction works explore race and relationship dynamics, while her fiction dives into the speculative and surreal. Ricky is stumbling through her final year of Creative Writing, on the Editorial Board at ScratchThat Magazine, an editor at the QUT Literary Salon and a freelance copywriter. Watch her struggle balancing commitments on Instagram @rickyjadee and check out her other publications at linktr.ee/rickyjade.
