I Sat in the Driver's Seat of a Car I Was Never Supposed to Touch

You are not supposed to be here.

You know this before you touch the door.

The sign on the chain-link fence says NO ENTRY. AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. But the gate hangs open six inches, just wide enough to suggest permission if you are the kind of person who needs permission to be suggested.

You are not.

You slip through.

The rain has stopped, but everything still shines. Headlights from the highway beyond the lot drag white lines across rows of abandoned cars. The gravel gives softly under your shoes. Somewhere behind the buildings, a compressor starts and coughs itself awake.

You keep walking.

You have told yourself that you are looking for the car.

That is not exactly true.

You are looking for the seatbelt.

Three nights ago, you stood beside that car while a paramedic cut the driver's belt with a knife.

You remember the sound.

Not the crash.

Not the glass.

Not the sirens.

The belt.

A small, dry snap.

You have heard that sound in your sleep ever since.

The car is near the back of the lot, beneath a sodium lamp that flickers without ever going out. You recognize the crushed hood first. Then the missing windshield. Then the blue paint scraped down to metal along the driver's side.

You stop at the passenger door.

The handle still works.

You should leave.

Instead, you pull it open.

The smell reaches you immediately.

Wet upholstery.

Antifreeze.

Mud.

Something metallic underneath all of it.

You climb inside.

The seat is damp through your jeans. The dashboard is dark. A little plastic saint hangs upside down from the mirror, turning slowly whenever the wind enters through the broken windshield.

You close the door.

For a moment, you listen.

Nothing.

You tell yourself that this is what you came for.

You are here because three nights ago someone was sitting in this car and now isn't.

You are here because you watched the ambulance leave.

You are here because nobody else noticed the seatbelt.

You did.

The driver's belt had not been cut.

The passenger's had.

You remember standing in the rain while the paramedic leaned into the wreck and cut through the webbing on your side.

Your side.

You had not been sitting there.

You were twenty feet away.

You were never in this car.

That is what you have repeated to yourself for three nights.

You reach across and touch the passenger belt.

The metal tongue hangs beside the seat.

You pull it toward you.

The webbing comes out.

One foot.

Two.

Three.

Then it stops.

You tug again.

Nothing.

You lean closer.

The belt is twisted near the floor.

Something dark is caught beneath the buckle housing.

At first you think it is a piece of fabric.

Then it is hair.

You freeze.

You let go.

The belt retracts with a fast, whispering hiss.

The hair disappears.

You stare at the buckle.

The interior light does not work, but the seat is suddenly clear.

There is a handprint in the damp upholstery.

Small.

Five fingers.

You look at your own hand.

You do not compare them.

You already know.

You are not supposed to be here.

The passenger door will not open.

You pull the handle again.

Nothing.

You push harder.

Nothing.

You try the lock.

It moves.

The door does not.

You check the driver's side.

The gap between the seats is narrow, but you turn sideways and climb through.

Your knee hits the center console.

Something cracks underneath your weight.

The sound is enormous.

You stop breathing.

Then you hear it.

A click.

The driver's seatbelt retracts.

Slowly.

By itself.

You look at the seat.

Empty.

The belt slides through the pillar.

A little at a time.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Until the buckle is resting against the seat.

You tell yourself that water is moving through the damaged mechanism.

You tell yourself that metal contracts.

You tell yourself anything that keeps your hands from shaking.

Then the belt moves again.

Out.

Across the empty seat.

The webbing stretches toward you.

You do not move.

It keeps coming.

The buckle reaches the center console.

Stops.

Then drops.

It lands against your thigh.

You look down.

The buckle is cold.

Your back presses into the seat. The same seat. The place where the impact happened. The place where someone was supposed to die.

The buckle lifts.

Not much.

Just enough to clear your leg.

You watch it rise.

You could leave now.

You could break the window.

You could scream.

Instead, your hands move before the rest of you can decide.

You take the buckle.

You insert it into the latch.

Click.

The sound is soft.

Final.

You are wearing the seatbelt.

Nothing happens.

For several seconds, nothing happens.

Then the dashboard lights up.

Every warning symbol burns red.

Airbag.

Brake.

Engine.

Seatbelt.

One by one, they flicker.

The radio turns on.

Static fills the car.

You reach for the knob.

A voice comes through.

Not a voice you recognize.

Not a voice you have forgotten.

A voice you have never heard before.

It says only one thing.

"Stay seated."

You do.

The radio goes silent.

The rain begins again.

You hear it tapping against the roof.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

You look through the broken windshield.

The lot is empty.

The sodium lamp flickers.

Behind it, the gate is still open.

Then the headlights turn on.

You jump.

The engine does not start.

The headlights simply come alive.

Two white beams cut through the rain.

The steering wheel shifts.

Just slightly.

A fraction to the left.

Then back.

The engine turns over.

You grab the door handle.

The lock drops.

The car rolls forward.

You shout.

Your voice sounds small inside the metal shell.

The gravel crunches beneath the tires.

The gate grows closer.

You pull the handle again.

Locked.

You reach for the seatbelt.

You press the release.

Nothing.

You press again.

Nothing.

The car passes through the open gate.

You are on the road.

No driver.

No hands on the wheel.

No one in the driver's seat except you.

You watch the road unfold in the headlights.

It is the same road from three nights ago.

The same bend.

The same row of trees.

The same broken streetlight.

Your breathing gets faster.

You know where the car is going.

You remember this part.

The paramedics asked you afterward whether you had seen the vehicle before the impact.

You said no.

They asked whether you knew the driver.

You said no.

They asked whether you had been inside the car.

You said no.

You said no three times.

The car accelerates.

You dig your fingers into the seat.

The windshield is broken open to the night. Rain strikes your face.

The speedometer rises.

Thirty.

Forty.

Fifty.

You pull the buckle until your palm burns.

It will not release.

The radio crackles.

You hear breathing.

Your breathing.

Except it is coming through the speakers.

You stop.

The breathing stops.

You inhale.

The speakers inhale.

You exhale.

The speakers exhale.

You look at the rearview mirror.

For a moment, you see the back seat.

Then you see yourself.

Not as you are now.

As you were three nights ago.

Standing outside the car.

Rain-soaked.

Watching.

Behind you, something is sitting in the passenger seat.

You turn.

The seat is empty.

You look back into the mirror.

The thing is still there.

It has your shape.

Your face.

Your clothes.

Your wet hair.

But its head is tilted at the wrong angle.

You blink.

Now the mirror shows only you.

The road bends.

The car does not slow down.

You know what is coming.

You know the tree.

You know the guardrail.

You know the ditch.

You know the exact place where the driver's belt snapped tight enough to leave a bruise across the chest.

You know the exact place where the passenger belt was cut.

You know because you were there.

You just were not inside the car.

That was what made it possible to lie.

The truth is worse.

You had been in the car.

Not during the crash.

Before.

You had climbed into the passenger seat because you were angry.

You had grabbed the belt and buckled yourself in.

You had waited.

You had argued.

You had refused to get out.

Then the driver had pulled away.

Then the rain had come.

Then the road had turned.

Then you had unbuckled yourself.

Then you had opened the door.

Then you had stepped out.

Then the car had disappeared around the bend.

You remember all of it now.

You remember the scream.

Not from the driver.

From you.

You remember running.

You remember arriving too late.

You remember telling the paramedic you had never been inside.

You remember looking at the passenger seat.

You remember seeing your own handprint.

You remember watching the paramedic cut your belt free.

Except it was not yours.

It belonged to the driver.

The driver had moved across the seat to reach you.

The driver had taken the impact.

You had walked away.

You have been telling yourself you survived an accident.

You did not.

You left someone else in your place.

The car is almost at the bend.

The seatbelt tightens.

Hard.

You cannot breathe.

You claw at the latch.

It holds you against the seat.

The radio speaks again.

"Stay seated."

The tree appears in the headlights.

You close your eyes.

You expect impact.

Instead, the car stops.

Instantly.

Silently.

The seatbelt goes slack.

You open your eyes.

The road is empty.

The rain has stopped.

The driver's door opens.

You stare at it.

Beyond the door is darkness.

Not the darkness of night.

Something deeper.

A place where the road ends without becoming anything else.

Your hand moves to the buckle. You don't tell it to. It presses.

Click.

This time, the latch opens.

You step out.

The car remains behind you.

You walk toward the driver's door.

You know you are not supposed to be here.

You know you were never supposed to return.

You know there is still someone sitting inside.

You open the door.

The driver's seat is empty.

The passenger seat is empty.

But the seatbelt is fastened.

You reach for the buckle.

Before your fingers touch it, the belt releases.

Click.

The car disappears.

You are standing alone on the road.

In the distance, somewhere beyond the trees, you hear a door slam.

Then another.

Then a third.

You do not turn around.

You begin walking home.

You keep one hand pressed against your chest the entire way.

Not because you are afraid.

Because you can still feel the seatbelt there.

Tight around you.