Blink

Green. Yellow. Red.

Green. Yellow. Red.

I watch the lights flash lazily through the timed sequence, again and again. No one else is on the street. The darkness is water, crushing and loud in its silence.

Green.

It’s all my fault.

Yellow.

I could have stopped it.

Red.

What now?

My hands grip the steering wheel. I face forward, staring but not seeing. I am vaguely aware of the seatbelt strapped across my chest, slightly too tight to be comfortable. Holding me in. Holding me back.

Green. Yellow. Red.

The streetlight is my only tether. A few buildings interrupt the otherwise smooth landscape. They seem to watch me, gaping eyes surrounded by broken glass. What now? They ask. What now? I could have stopped it. It is really, truly all my fault. I need to go, but I am stuck, mesmerized by the slow, predictable marching of the colors.

Green. Yellow. Red.

I didn’t start the fire, not that anyone will believe me now. I did watch it grow, stealing life for itself, consuming and destroying. I watched it go from an echo of a whisper to a true inferno. The warmth was nice at first. Comforting, on an otherwise chilly night. Comforting, and then more insistent, more urgent, until my skin was screaming at my brain to move, communicating the primal need to flee, like an animal racing against a wildfire. I didn’t move. I couldn’t get the stupid thought out of my head, how pretty. Red, orange, yellow. How pretty. I’ve always thought so. When I was young, I would stare at candle flames for hours, watching the wick slowly disappear under the frantic dancing of the flame, feral and cruel. I would watch the wax distort until it was unrecognizable, enchanted by the controlled violence.

Green.

Who was screaming?

Yellow.

Was it him?

Red.

Was it me?

I think he was there. He always has been, these days. Or had been. One day, After, he just showed up and decided to stay. Echoing my footsteps, a constant, silent presence. I would watch out of the corner of my eye, feigning nonchalance with my movements but aware of every shift, every sigh. Ready to move if I needed. Only I didn’t ever need to. Over time, I grew accustomed to him. He rarely bothered me, and with time I began to welcome his company. He seemed benign, and he didn’t interfere. Until a few hours ago.

Green, yellow, red, green, yellow, red.

I don’t know how long I’ve been here. I can’t tell if the lights are blinking faster, or if I’m imagining it. Everyone has always told me I have a rich imagination. That’s where they said he came from. My imagination. They told me that it was okay, that he wasn’t real. They waxed poetic about coping mechanisms and the ambiguity of the line between fact and fiction. I stopped arguing after a while so they would stop talking. He would smile, as if it amused him that no one believed me. I know it did.

Green yellow red, green yellow red.

The steering wheel is slick underneath my hands. They are black and red with ash and burns, my hands. They don’t seem like mine. I think they might be shaking, that I might be shaking, but I can’t be sure. I think I can hear the faint whine of sirens in the distance. Finally. They might be too late.

Green yellow red green yellow red.

Definitely faster. More frenzied. Like I was, trying to get out. I told him I didn’t want to, but he swore it was okay. His hands holding the match, his pouring the gasoline. Black and red, black and red hands. His hands, not my hands. Are they my hands? Were they mine?

Greenyellowredgreenyellowredgreenyellowredgreenyellowred.

I wonder what they’ll say, when they see. I left him there. They’ll see him now. They have to.

Greenyellowredgreenyellowredgreenyellowredgreenyellowred-

The lights shut off altogether. The sirens are getting closer. Different lights now.

Blue. White. Red. Blue. White. Red.

Blue.

I’m so sorry.

White.

I have to go.

Red.

I release the brake and drive into the night.