Brooklyn Scorned

I'd been dead a year. An entire year, yet there I sat, trying to breathe (in, out; I have to remind myself sometimes). I looked at the people around me suffering in the same intense heat as me. Their faces red and swollen, ready to explode. I tried to find something to grab my attention, but everything and everybody looked the same, so instead I sat and waited trying not to think too much.

All these thoughts ran through my head before we even made it to the Brooklyn Bridge. I was probably just being an angst-ridden hysteric, but I wanted out of that car more than anything. I wanted to get out, close the door, and never open it again.

The heat bounced off the exposed bits of black highway and off the other cars, so close I could reach out and touch them. It radiated through the tinted windows behind which I suffered. Jason sat behind the wheel tapping his fingers against the dashboard to an obnoxious beat that contradicted the radio. I watched his face for some slight hint he knew I was here, but it remained fixed in discomfort from the stifling heat. Waves passed in front of my eyes blurring the Nissan truck in front of us. We weren't going anywhere, the cars had stopped far ahead of us probably watching some horrific scene of vehicular manslaughter, so I memorized the Ohio plates in front of us, 2TAU230.

"Can I turn the station?" I asked knowing he would say no.

Without even looking at me, he said, "What?"

"I said, can I turn the station. I hate this fuckin song."

He continued to ignore me and proved his manhood by turning the volume all the way up. He bounced his head to the music, like some stupid teenager at a punk show. His hair swung in front of his face, creating a dark haze him. I could feel the bass shaking the entire car; the speaker in front of me rattling and distorting the already distorted music. That speaker's been blown for years and I was waiting for it to explode in anger, shooting bits of plastic and steel into Jason's face and shattering the windshield. I waited for his blood to seep into the burgundy velour. I waited, but the speaker just continued to shake despondently.

"What's with all this fuckin traffic?" I said rolling down the window only to let in a blast of hot air. I took out a cigarette, meaning to light it, but instead I stared at the blue of the Zippo flame. It flickered toward the sun, wanting to return home.

"You say fuck too much." We were yelling to be heard over the music.

"You said that on our first date. Only then it turned you on."

"Yeah, well I must have been delusional."

I lit my cigarette and clicked the silver lid over the flame extinguishing its life. "Fuck you," I said just over the deafening roar. Sitting against the door, blowing smoke in his face, I wished he were dead.

Without warning, as if it was an answer from God, the car behind us jerked forward slamming into us. Jason's Olds flew forward and hit the car ahead. His head hit the windshield as he was propelled out of his seat. I slid toward the floor, under the cracking dash. The sound of steel scraping and glass breaking bounced through the car heightening the intense agony that was exploding into thousands of little lights in my head. Looking up, I could see Jason's face turned downward in a mess of agony. Blood mixed with bits of brain and clumps of dark hair. His neck was contorted and I don't think it was broken, but it must have been hard for him to breathe. I never even heard him gasp for air. A bubble of silence surrounded his body. I could only see one of his sky blue eyes I used to love so much, and it was now set in a pool of darkness. Not even the sun reflected in the stillness. The only motion came from his torn lips twitching, trying to scream for help.

The music turned to abstract waves of nausea and black spots started dancing in front of my eyes. I let them close, leaving me in bewildered darkness. Warm drops danced on to my face, dripping slowly, keeping a rhythm like Jason never could. I knew it was blood, and I wanted to see the tortured look on his face as he realized his life was gushing out into pools on the floor. I wanted to open my eyes and laugh as he struggled to hang on. Screams echoed through the shattered glass hitting my eardrums, breaking the numb silence.

"What's that stupid look for?" Jason asked awaking.

"What look?" I asked innocently feeling the sweat stinging my eyes and tickling my ribs. My black tank top clung to my breasts and my jeans were sticking to my legs. I hate summer. The smoke and nicotine was making me dizzy, so I threw the rest of my cigarette out the window watching it hit the road in a blaze of sparks. In, out, in, I said to myself. I could feel my lungs suffocating in the heat.

This time he should have died. I was tired of sitting next to him. If we didn't get out of the car soon, I would scratch his eyeballs out and cook them in the glove compartment, so he wouldn't be able to look at me with contempt. He would reach up amazed at my action and probably think that I really was crazy, just like he always told everyone. That's if the pain wasn't too much for him. Sitting there, watching that stupid little truck, I pictured his eyeballs roasting in the heat of the sun. I wondered if they would shrivel up or hard boil like eggs.

"What's wrong?" Jason asked me. Another repeat from his collection of overused questions. Every time I wasn't paying attention to him, something was wrong. Of course when I did say anything to him, I was bothering him.

"Nothing," I lied.

"Why you lying?"

I almost smiled through my apathy. The voice he said that in made me almost feel like he cared. It was the same voice he used when he talked to girls. The same voice he used to use with me when I would call late at night for no reason. That was a long time ago, before I laid in bed listening to that voice speak to some nameless caller I wasn't allowed to ask about. Actually, I had been thinking about something. I'd been wondering why I kept going back to him. For the last year, whenever he was bored or wanted to fuck, I was there. Then daylight came, and I was if no use. I was a memory of his failures.

Before he interrupted me, I'd been thinking about the night before. About why I'd given in. I really did only have plans to curl up and go to sleep. We'd been playing video games for hours, and my eyes hurt. I closed them and put my head next to his on the single pillow. Then he kissed me. He kissed me. He never kissed me. For a moment I fooled my self into believing he cared that it was me next to him. His hands were on my body, and I kissed him back. His hands were getting him in trouble. They had a mind of their own. They were under my shirt and clawing at my skin. I tried to resist, but my hands disobeyed me. One was wrapped in his hair, the other sliding down his belly through the thin patch of hair above his boxers.

I'd been thinking that hands always get in you trouble. So I wasn't really lying with my answer. It wasn't me that had something wrong; it was my hands. They regretted the night before. Looking at Jason, I knew he wanted to know what was going on in my head. "Nothing's wrong. I was just looking out the window."

"Uh-huh. You say that now and in a couple days I'll hear about it won't I?"

"Nothing's wrong." I was getting agitated. Why couldn't he just leave me alone? Or better yet why couldn't he read my mind so I would never have to talk to him again. I slipped back into my thoughts, this time wondering if Jesus could read minds. Jason looked just like all those hazy paintings of Christ that adorned old women's walls. The first time we had sex, I was glad I didn't grow up Catholic.

"Why do you have to be so difficult?" he asked, obviously not able to read minds any better than he's able to resurrect our relationship.

"Why do you care?"

He ignored me, as usual, and reached toward the radio dial. Commercials had been droning on for what seemed like hours, and Jason's ears probably ached just like mine. He found death metal hour or something and turned the volume even higher making all conversation impossible.

Realizing we were stopped again, I asked Jason if we were on the BQE.

"Yeah, why" he replied.

"No reason," I said as I opened the passenger door, ready to escape.

"What are you doing?" Jason asked me as I was trying to climb out the door unnoticed.

"Nothing"

"Where do you think you're going?" he asked as my right foot hit the street.

"Somewhere." I expected my foot to the tar, it having melted in the afternoon sun, but it remained somehow firm under my weight.

"You're going to hit by a car."

"Good," I said sliding out and shutting the door behind me. Jason looked slightly confused, but I just walked away. Weaving in and out of cars, I made it to the shoulder, and wondered exactly how far we were from the bridge. I thought I could find my bearings, but I didn't even know what exit was next, or last. I just walked, confidence in my step. Everything seemed like a dream. I almost felt alive again. I couldn't believe I just walked away. After five years of us, even after the last year of on again off again heartbreak, I can't believe I just walked away. Then again, where did I think I was going? I took my hand off the door handle and reached for the radio instead. My fingers barely touched the knob, when Jason started yelling. I couldn't wait to get out of Brooklyn. When I was a kid in Colorado, Brooklyn sounded so great. I dreamed about marrying into the Mafia and picking up an accent. Someone would always take care of me, nobody would mess with me, and the sound of my voice would make people shake. Then I met Jason, and discovered Brooklyn wasn't like it was in the movies, and the people weren't half as amazing. I just wanted to stay in my tiny Manhattan apartment and pretend there were no other boroughs. A billboard advertising cellular phones loomed ahead of us. Some guy in a cab with a phone attached to a cord. I wish I had a phone cord to wrap around Jason's neck. I would pull it tighter and tighter until the sky camouflaged his skin.

Unfortunately, all I had were cigarettes, and as I lit one, I caught my eye in the side mirror.I looked like a lunatic. Sweat had dampened my face making it puffy. There were bags under my eyes from the lack of sleep the night before. I hadn't been allowed a shower so my hair clumped in bunches sticking out in the worse places. There was still crusty sleep stuff in the corner of my eye, so I brushed it away as I turned my attention to the cigarette. No wonder Jason hated seeing me in the daylight. I looked filthy against his cleanliness. He smelled fresh and his skin was smooth. I was just a lump of trash he'd left in the car the night before that was beginning to fester.

We finally made it to the bridge. Around all the curves and onto to the straightaway home. Hours sitting in the hot sun had made me tired. I leaned my head back, relieved that I was almost home. Something broke the peace. It felt like a tremor, but that was impossible. The Brooklyn Bridge was sturdy. Jason had explained to me on our first date why it didn't break in high winds. Something about a give and take relationship with the wind.

The tremor turned into a rolling shake. We weren't swaying; we were bouncing. "What the fuck is going on?" I asked looking toward Jason for the answer.

"Nothing. It's just the wind."

"This is not wind."

"Look, I don't know. Do you see me sitting here? I know everything you know. Just shut up, okay."

"The bridge is falling."

"The bridge isn't falling"

"We have to get out of here."

"Calm down. The bridge can't be falling." He said this as the car in front of us was crushed by some tremendous piece of metal. In the rearview mirror, I could see cars dropping off the side into the river below. People on the walkway were screaming, and drivers were running from their cars. I sat there in stunned silence. This couldn't be happening. It felt like an earthquake. New York doesn't have quakes, I thought as a section of road dropped spilling cars headed toward Brooklyn into the air. They scattered downward a jumble of beautiful balloons floating to their fate. Strangely enough, in all this apocalyptic panic, I wanted to look at Jason and say, "I guess this bridge wasn't retrofitted." He probably would have failed to see the humor.

The road in front of us cracked, and I waited for the gap to open sucking us in, and dropping us into the water below. Chaos swept me into a daze as I realized we were right in the middle of the bridge. We wouldn't make it to either side in time. One section of road went left, just as another went right. The bridge looked like a slinky twisting around an invisible hand. Cars were sliding, some off the side, others into the steel support beams. I could see people desperately trying to fight their way out of locked doors and rolled up windows.

Jason had opened his door and was trying to get me to do the same. I just sat there as pieces of steel and concrete swirled around like garbage. He was reaching across the seat for me, when I looked out the open door just in time to see Jason get swept down with a section of falling bridge. I just sat and waited to get off the bridge and away from Brooklyn.

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