A Road Under the Sun
“In life’s theater, choices forge our roads. Regrets, mysteries, and unforeseen encounters line winding paths, all beneath fate’s relentless, scorching sun.”
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As the scorching July sun is reaching its zenith in the midday sky, the resonating sobs of Linda’s exasperation are echoing through the phone. “Your daughter,” her breath is weighing heavily, gasping, “you must HELP.”
“What the hell is happening?” John is shouting, his voice a volatile blend of confusion and tension, with terror brewing in his chest.
“Please,” Linda is pleading, and the call abruptly drops off.
In a silent ring, John hurls the phone aside, bolts from the wood factory, and heads toward his red Chevrolet Bel Air ’49. Gripping the steering wheel, the cigarette clenched between his gritted lips. Sweat beads on his forehead, mingling with the oppressive heat seeping through the open car window as he presses the accelerator with force.
Speeding through the winding mountain road, enveloped by a dense tapestry of pine trees, a man is driven by the urgency of reaching his home, now a distant two-hour drive away. Unconcerned about speed limits and undeterred by the road’s harsh bends and scattered gravel obstacles, John maneuvers the car like a madman. His singular focus on breaching the confines of time unfurls his thirty-seven years, which he believes are dedicated to a singular purpose — unraveling the mystery surrounding his wife and five-month-old daughter’s peril.
“Loneliness is the primal adversary of man, and I, I am the first enemy of my wife,” John proclaims, wiping perspiration away with the sleeve of his right shirt.
‘Absurd! Such self-blame is a testament to your weakness. I cannot recall a solitary day in your accursed matrimony where genuine happiness graced your presence.’
“If I could be with her instead of constant escape, things would be taking a different turn.”
‘More folly. To remain would mean the surrender of your sanity, or perhaps even your demise at her hands. What can one anticipate from a conventional union with an ignorant woman from a provincial village? What lies ahead?’
“In our early days of marriage, I remember they are good days,” he muses, flicking a cigarette out of the car window, igniting another, and casting the matchbox aside. “It is the progeny that clouds her mind; her mother’s ideas wreak havoc upon her.”
‘Cursed be that aged woman, a harbinger of malevolence who utters naught but ill.’
“I should never have abandoned them.”
‘And how do you sustain yourselves, my dear? How do you bear the burden of existence with such meager financial means?’
“I’ve done a lot of things out of the impulse to escape, not for money.” Beads of sweat are descending his face, compelling him to squeeze his eyes shut and then open them anew. The air is growing hotter, the road more winding, yet John remains impassive, pressing on with haste.
‘Do not hold yourself accountable; this is not your transgression. You have safeguarded the remnants of your sanity amidst nights with constant cries, her tumultuous screams, her curses hurled at the world, her neglect of personal hygiene, and your abode, more dust-laden than the very road we traverse. Admit it, John, there are moments when you yearn for her demise, to join her aging mother.’
“NO! Everything is changing now; we are finally being blessed with a child. Our desires, Linda’s desires, are materializing. Our redemption,” John articulates, speaking to himself, the fervor building within him. A searing pang reverberates through his heart. “I desire nothing from the world; I long to gaze upon Nour.” He said loudly.
‘Hasten your pace then, for who knows, perhaps the peril to your daughter is not just from external forces but from Linda herself. Or have you forgotten, you who seeks redemption?’
Making a frown eye contact with himself in the front mirror, exclaims, “It is the symptoms of pregnancy-induced depression, commonplace in our village,” leaning forward, keeping his wet back away from the car seat, clutching the steering wheel, and accelerating.
The engine roars with urgency, beads of sweat drip down his face, and the sun intensifies the colors that clutch before his eyes. Fumbling beside him, searching for matchsticks to ignite his craving for a cigarette, he finds it on the floorboard of the chair next to him. He rescues them with a swift motion and wipes the sweat away. With a trembling hand, lights the match, and tosses it out of the window.
At around 1:30 PM, nearing his home road but not quite there, an unbearable scene unfolds in front of him, maybe 200 meters away, a congregation of deer forms a mystic circle, seemingly guarding an unseen entity. Desperation seizes him as he attempts to brake, only to discover that the car remains unresponsive. A dire choice lies ahead of him — either veer off the road or plow through them.
There is currently no space for his benevolence, prompting him to decide to cross the road. The deer swiftly pass in front of him, setting the stage for an unforeseen encounter with a strange child, no more than six winters old. Enveloped in an oversized brown coat that conceals any distinguishing features, except for a pair of intense sad red eyes, the child fixates its gaze upon him. Then a haunting sound of “Daddy!” resonates as if whispered from John’s car back seat. The word strikes him like a spectral apparition.
In that fateful moment, the frame violently jolts, and the front wheels take control of the car, propelling it to the left to collide with a barrier on the side of the road. The red Chevrolet embarks on a chaotic descent down the winding slopes of the mountain, completing five to seven tumultuous rolls. Amidst this terrifying descent, enduring the agony of broken bones and a powerful hit to the head, consciousness fades away. The car comes to rest at the bottom of the valley, gradually engulfed in flames that eventually explode under the scorching sun.
