Roadkill
There’s something dead on the highway.
An amorphous mound of shriveled fur lay on the peeling orange line that demarcates the median. Mark stares at it from the other side of the road, cars flying by so near he feels the breeze of their passing. He stifles a sneeze.
Mark ponders the creature. It looks to have once been a hare, though now little more than a scabbed rug. The shapelessness of it strikes him as singularly peculiar; its bones seemingly pulverized to dust. He feels a pang of something like sympathy.
Where was it going?
Had it ran under tire in a panic of fear? Or did it wander dumbly into headlights while searching out greener pastures? Is there a home for it somewhere in the hills, now an empty hollow? Or a den full of blind mewling lumps nestled beneath an old tree’s roots? Did the grey thing risk life and limb for a mate, and pay the price? Or was it simply young and foolish?
What did it want? Did it understand the danger?
Mark’s phone buzzes. He knows who’s calling even before he pulls it from his pocket. Oscar wants to go out tonight. Hit up some dives or maybe do a little pub crawling downtown. To spend the weekend imminent in pursuit of release, as usual. As always.
Mark mutes the call.
The cars pass on still, in endless procession. Mark rubs the back of his neck and turns to gaze at his old sedan, lying inert half on the shoulder of the road, half on the brown grass. He should be calling for roadside assistance, but he can’t afford the tow, never-mind a mechanic. He stares at it longingly, willing it to light up and purr — to come miraculously back to life. He mutters an invocation to that effect, but the car doesn’t stir.
Mark sighs and turns back to the highway. To all the vehicles, alive and well, flashing by. He does some mental calculations. If he took on another job he might be able to cover the repairs, without mutilating his credit. Even at minimum wage, he could make it work.
But he would fall behind on his student loan.
Maybe he’d sell his body.
He amuses himself with a little list of prospective buyers, and then dismays himself with the conclusion that he had already given them all freebies.
His hand moves from his neck to his scalp and he feels the grime of sweat in his hair. He really can’t afford to repair the car; he yearns to just walk away and leave it. He emits a sharp snort of laughter. He can’t afford to leave it.
Across the road, the grey thing lay decaying and boneless. Mark’s eyes fall again upon it.
Where was it going?
If it had known the probable outcome, would it still have risked the crossing? Surely survival, on even the coarsest of grass, is preferable to flat non-existence. Could it not have meandered, frolicked and been happy? Turned away from the highway and lived?
What did it want?
Mark takes the phone from his pocket and dials Oscar as he begins the long trek home.
