Goodbye

Before

It was ten o'clock, and very dark.  

I checked out with Randy, my boss. He smiled at me sympathetically. I smiled back wearily.

I was exhausted. I had taken a late shift because my mother and I needed the money in order to pay rent. We lived in a ramshackle house in a shabby neighborhood. Not that it mattered. Mom did the best she could. I didn't blame her.

I exited the small grocery store where I had worked ever since I was thirteen. The legal working age in Colorado is only a year older than that.

I shuffled to my truck, my eighth best friend in the entire world. She's a 2001 Toyota Tacoma, black paint barely visible amongst the mass of metal and rust she truly is. I decided to name her Ella when she first became mine. Ella was my first and only dog, a golden retriever puppy with the floppiest ears I had ever seen. I also swore that she could smile (the dog, not the truck). I loved that dog, but Dad had taken her when he left. However, he had left the truck. He had undoubtedly been able to afford a new car as soon as he married the rich woman he had cheated on Mom with. Probably a Mustang. He had always wanted one.

It didn't matter. I got the truck when I turned sixteen, and I was grateful because Ella took me everywhere. One time, Mom had asked me why I didn't give my truck a boy's name. To put it simply, I knew more girl badasses than boys, so that's the gender I chose for my badass truck. It really had nothing to do with my emotional need to represent the female gender. To say the least, I wasn't ever much of a feminist, at least in the traditional sense.

I walked to my truck as fast as my tired feet could carry me. That is, at about the speed of those chairs old people use to go up and down staircases. That is, not very fast at all. I thought of Mom, taking the bus home after her night shift at the bank downtown. She would be home even later than I would. I felt grateful for Ella again. It seemed to be a miracle that Mom let me take the truck, leaving her with the dreariness that is public transportation. I figured it was because, at the young age of seventeen, I was already a better driver than her.

It was this thought that comforted me as I slid into the driver's seat, almost too beat to keep my eyes open. I told myself I would be careful as I slid the keys into the ignition. It was a two-mile drive on 35 mile-per-hour roads the whole way home. I would be fine.

I waved to Randy, who was closing up shop. He waved back, looking concerned. I didn't want to worry him, because he had done a lot to help my mom and I throughout the years. So, before I let myself get too comfortable in Ella's worn seat, which was perfectly sculpted to my butt after almost two years of use, I turned the keys and stepped lightly on the gas, reversing slowly out of my reserved parking space. I adjusted the gear to drive forward, being extra careful to look alert while exiting the parking lot. I knew that Randy wouldn't hire me for late nights again if he thought I was too tired to drive safely. He was constantly telling me to get more sleep, yet hired me for early mornings and late nights anyways. He needed the help and I needed the money.

As soon as I had eased Ella out of the parking lot, I let my shoulders relax. It was very late, and there were few cars out on the road. I told myself that I was almost home. I let myself take three deep breaths and settled deeper into Ella's warm embrace. My eyes were heavy. My hands were heavy. My entire body felt as if it were being dragged down by an invisible force, luring me ever deeper into the custom-fitted cloth seats of my beautiful truck.

My feet were heavy.

My right foot was heavy.

And I heard nothing as my Ella drove herself into the trunk of an enormous oak tree that had appeared out of nowhere.

I heard nothing as my head was whipped forward.

I heard nothing as it was then slammed against the airbag, which had deployed at 175 miles per hour.

I heard nothing as the tree impaled its merciless branches through Ella's windshield, leaving behind spiderweb-like cracks, which tapered out into hairline fissures.

I heard nothing as shards of glass became projectiles, tearing through my truck. Tearing through me.

I heard nothing. And everything was dark.