Wrong Turn Part 5

The road I find easily enough, as that familiar pull catches me and tells me to turn. It seems stronger this time, more impossible to resist. I think of a junkie sticking a needle in his arm, sure that his actions will kill him eventually but unable to do anything else. I flip my blinker on and make the turn, feeling suddenly as though everything has brightened. The knot of tension in my gut unties itself and a relaxing relief tingles through me. It's going to be fine; everything will turn out alright. All I have to do is reach the end of the road. There, all things will be answered.

The needle on my speedometer crawls higher, now at forty, now at forty-five. My heart is beating in ecstasy, and for the first time all day I crack a smile. This is it, my destiny. The needle shows sixty miles per hour. At the end of this road will be the meaning of all things, ready to be discovered. Seventy miles per hour. And I will be the one to do it. The lone explorer, with glory to gain and nothing to lose. Eighty miles per hour. Trees and fields blur past, and I don't care. Everything I ever wanted, and it's waiting here for me. Ninety miles per hour and now I can't contain my joy. I let out a loud whooping holler, knowing I won't need to worry about the man in the gray suit now. He can stand in the middle of the road if he wants to, but I'm not going to stop. A hundred miles an hour, the fastest I've ever pushed this minivan. But the engine roars, pleased at the challenge and hungry for more. And with my foot on the gas, I feed it.

I see a winking red light in the far distance which I'm sure is an airplane tower or something. Then the light takes shape inside a face, and I'm looking at the eyes of the man in the road. He's looking into my eyes and I'm touched by the absolute wrongness of the situation. And here he comes, sliding up the road at an incredible rate. He's going to hit me. But no, it's the van; I'm going too fast. The brakes, something urges. My foot releases the gas and touches the brake pedal. There is a slight reduction in speed. I press harder, against a pedal that pushes back to meet my force. The man is not moving, is not doing anything but staring at me. I'm a hundred yards away and there is no way I'll be able to stop. Both my legs are now straining against the pedal and outside I can hear rubber being torn from the tires. Beneath my feet the brake mechanism grinds, seemingly falling apart under the pressure. I look desperately from the speedometer to the man. I'm going forty-five and the man is closing fast, maybe at this point only twenty meters from me. I'll hit him any second. Turn the wheel, I think. Go past him. And I wrench the steering wheel to the left, both feet still on the brake pedal. The turn is sharp, and something happens.

When it's done happening I'm hanging upside down in my seat, blood dripping into my nasal cavity from my lip. Yellow green strands of field grass reach whimsically through the windshield, as if they'd grown there. My hands, nicked with pieces of glass, are still clutching the steering wheel. My feet are still on the brake. I've flipped the van, I know, but I don't quite believe it. When I see my reflection in the rear-view mirror (now perfectly in front of me) I quietly chuckle. Because there's no way this is right. Embedded in my forehead is a large and jagged piece of automotive window glass. It's joined so well that when I turn my head it moves with me. I bring my hand up to touch it, and when I try to wiggle it there's no give. The most I can figure is that it's fused to my skull, in so deep that no amount of wiggling will set it loose.