Page 63 of Haunt Me

I’m not sure anymore.

The truck drifts toward the shoulder. The tires hit the rumble strip hard enough to shake the steering wheel in my hands. I jerk it back into the lane.

The movement sends pain through my skull. It starts behind my eyes and spreads toward the base of my neck, pulsing in time with my heartbeat. I haven’t eaten today. I might not have eaten yesterday either.

There’s a bottle tucked beneath the driver’s seat. I know exactly where it is without looking. I also know it’s almost empty.

The road curves again, and the static clears.

The river.

The girl.

The man left behind.

I laugh, but the sound that comes out of me doesn’t resemble anything human.

Raven would’ve changed the station ten minutes ago. She would’ve looked over at me with that expression she wore when she was trying not to smile, lifted one eyebrow, and informed me that I wasn’t allowed to ruin a perfectly good drive by brooding to songs designed to make middle-aged men stare dramatically out of windows.

Then she would’ve sung along.

Badly and loud enough that I’d threaten to pull over and leave her on the side of the road. She would’ve smiled because we both knew I could never leave her anywhere.

The thought hits fast and hard enough that my fingers tighten around the steering wheel until the joints ache.

Outside, bare trees crowd the road, their branches reaching across the winter sky. Snow lies in uneven banks along the shoulder, gray where passing tires have sprayed it with salt and dirt. The mountains rise around me in familiar layers, but I don’t recognize the road.

The dashboard clock blinks at 2:43. I haven’t bothered to reset it. I stopped keeping track somewhere between motel rooms and gas stations. The days blurred together until they stopped feeling like days at all.

Sometimes I drive until my body gives out, then wake up slumped against the steering wheel with my neck on fire and the engine still idling. Other times I don’t sleep for days because closing my eyes only brings her back. I don’t know which is worse anymore.

A green sign appears ahead.

I read it once. Then again.

Bushkill Falls.

The truck slows.

I don’t remember taking the exit. For several seconds, I sit in the lane while the sign disappears behind me, trying to remember how I got here.

Not here.

Here.

The last clear memory I have is at a motel. The woman behind the desk asked if I wanted another night. I reached into my pocket for some cash, but all I found were a few crumpled bills and some loose change. There was nowhere near enough to pay for another night.

She gave me an apologetic smile. I told her it was fine, got back in the truck, and started driving.

Everything after that is just flashes.

A gas station.

A bottle of whiskey.

Coffee in a Styrofoam cup.

The yellow lines stretching endlessly beneath my headlights.