Roadkill Flowers
I would hit the brakes as hard as I could, is what I told myself.
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There's this one road I travel on very regularly. It's a fairly busy road. Scenic, with the mountains looming in the near distance. Fading into existence from their deep slumber as the sun greets them in the sky at dawn. Light, breathing life into natures skyline. The chirps of the birds and the rushing of the cars populate the day, and the mountains darken away until they're flat against the golden and purple gradient of the dimming sky. The mountains, at this time, seem almost two-dimensional. Black stencils lined against the colorful horizon of our world, giving it a most definitive end.
The end of the world, just within reach.
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People use this road daily for commute. To reach their workplaces, to reach their friends, and to reach their homes. Some follow the traffic rules, some don't. Some drive recklessly, while others could probably afford to drive a bit more reckless. Better than stalling the traffic, I mean. Men, women, elderly, and even kids, constantly in motion. Uninterrupted and ceaseless, just like the cycle of day surrendering into night, and that of night, ushering in a new day. Never stopping, not even to take a breath. Hurriedly, slowly, impatiently, leisurely, all moving forward. All always moving forward on this road, to get to where they need to be.
And just like them, the animals, too, are always in motion. Scampering forward in perpetuity, mirroring the world around them, or at least trying to. Trying, to reach their hunting grounds, and trying, to reach their kin, and trying, to reach their holes and dens. The cars travel along this road, and the foxes, and dogs, and cats, and critters and vermin too, cross this road along with them, trying not to get left behind. Excitedly, lazily, playfully, calmly, all running across. All always running across this road, trying to get to where they want to be.
But unfortunately, only some get to reach that place.
Every time I drive on this road to go back home, I pass a carcass resting peaceless in the middle of the road. Cars passing beside it, barely evading, or sometimes even passing over it without a moment's hesitation, as if devoid of even pity. Foxes, and dogs, and cats, and critters and vermin too, lying lifeless in the middle of the road, no one to drag them to the side, away from all the cars passing by. Away from this restless purgatory where their body knows no reprieve. Away from this cruel fate where tires burn rubber onto what was once their beautiful pelage.
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I've had this conversation with myself many times. Almost too many. Every time I pass this hackneyed scene of an animals lifeless body on the road, and every time I almost barely miss colliding into the animal running past right in front of me. I always slow down a little, and I force back some tears as my hearts sinks deep into my stomach. I don't want this blood on my hands. That poor animal has someone waiting for it back home. And even if it doesn't, it still is a living, breathing thing, with flesh of the same protein that constitutes my flesh, and teeth of the same minerals that form my teeth, and a heart that pumps the same blood that flows through my heart. So how can I be the one responsible for spilling that same blood. How can I be the one responsible for leaving a bump on the road? How can I be the one responsible? How can it be me?
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It's all about me in the end isn't it?
It can't be me, is what I told myself.
Sometimes, I would see the body already to the side of the road and wonder, did someone really stop and drag this animal cadaver away? What would happen if I were to hit a poor creature by accident? Would I stop and drag it to the side of the road so that the other cars don't defile this lifeless body? Or would I keep on driving? I think I'd be worried about my hands. I don't keep tissues in my car. I don't even have a sanitizer stashed away in the dashboard. How would I wipe the blood off? I might contract some disease if I carry the animal to the side of the road. Think of all the bacteria. I can't grab my steering wheel with bacteria on my hands. What if my eye gets itchy? How will I scratch it with these dirty hands?
Oh how pitiful for the poor animal to have such a pathetic murderer. A murderer who can't even spare a sliver of thought for its victim! What tragic luck!
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It's all about me in the end isn't it?
I can't do it, is what I told myself.
A few weeks back I remember, I was driving back home and I saw a strange sight. A splatter of red, and white, and yellow, and purple petals, sprawled across this road. A bouquet, that someone had so heartlessly discarded onto this busy road, lay ravaged, decorated with tire track imprints. Its blooms split open wide. A poor soul, its life taken away so abruptly. It couldn't even get to where it wanted to be. Each passing car burying it deeper and deeper, ripping the flowers from its buds, and the buds from its stems, and the stems from its leaves, till nothing distinguishable remained. Only a macabre scene of faded colors painting the road. And what of the person who threw these flowers into undeserved perdition? A fate so cruel? Did he know no mercy? No.
He had to keep driving, is what I told myself.
Sometimes the flowers you have spent so much on are not meant to stay with you forever. Sometimes it just doesn't matter if you keep watering them or not. They were never meant to reach where they wanted to reach.
Sometimes you have to toss them aside before they wither away, because they're bound by self-wrought fate. Sometimes you have to cause them pain, just to keep on moving forward. And sometimes, it's no one's fault.
He had to keep driving, is what I told myself.
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It all eventually bore bitter fruit.
A dog.
Stopped dead.
In its tracks.
And all of these thoughts rushed into my head, suddenly yet somehow still slowly and sluggishly, as if time had turned viscous, and my mind turned blank. And all I could think of was: Did I pack my hand sanitizer with me today?
I slammed on the brakes, but not as hard as I safely could. My foot let off ever so slightly, and then… just as quietly as a breath escapes the lips of one drifting off into peaceful slumber, a breath, the last breath, escaped the lips of who was right in front of me, of who had been with me for so long. Roadkill flowers. A muse of petals, and blood, and of red. And all I could think of was: This red I've left on the tar of the road will haunt me… for a day… or three, and then I'll move on. Just like the cars all around me. Just like the silhouettes in my side view mirrors.
I had to keep driving, is what I told myself.
Just because you stopped moving in the dead center of my life, doesn't mean I have to stop just like you.
I can't be like you.
Stopped dead.
In my tracks.
I had to keep driving, is what I told myself.
And so I did. I didn't even water the lifeless flowers with my tears. Instead, I left them sprawled across the road, bleeding out and watering the indifferent asphalt. I said that I have so much guilt over this but thats all it ever was. Empty words, incapable of resounding anything real. Guilt - spelt out, but never meant.
I'm sorry.
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There's this one road I travel on very regularly. It's a fairly busy road. Scenic, with the flowers mangled in the near distance. Fading out of existence, into deep slumber as the sun bids them farewell at dusk. Night, breathing life out of nature itself. The cries of the petals, and the rushing of the cars hush away into the night and the flowers darken away, until they're lifeless against the yellow and gray duotone of the cold highway. The flowers, at this time, seem almost two-dimensional. Colorless outlines lined against the colorful blood that it splattered all over that wretched road I travel on every day, painting it in all it's final glory. Painting a picture it vowed I would never dare forget. Painting right into my memory. Painting a most definitive end.
The end of your world, just within my reach.
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But I don't even remember the color of the flowers I left behind.
I would remember their colors at least, is what I told myself.