The Immediacy of Regret

I’m driving too fast. Jane glares at me from the passenger seat. I beat her to the “we-need-some-time-apart” speech. It was a long time coming, but it’s the right thing. She wanted out as badly as I did, I’m sure of it.

I know I’m pushing it hard when the wheels slip going round a curve. In an instant, I lose control and the rock face looms on the left, nicking the fender. We spin across the empty road and hit the guardrail. It folds back like tin foil. Before I can blink, we are over and airborne. I am thrown around violently as car bounces across the bottom of the ravine, a bumblebee in a field of wildflowers. Jane’s scream competes with the squeal of rending metal and breaking glass. The car rolls lazily a few times, and rocks to a stop on its wheels.

My head throbs but the silence is louder. Blood streams down my face. I look over but Jane’s not there.

Everything hurts and my body doesn’t work right, but I smell smoke, so I force myself out through the smashed window and fall to the ground. I see a fountain of gas running under the car. I look for Jane. She’s on the ground near the car, not moving. Her beautiful face is bloody. The ringing in my ears fades and I hear the crackle of fire. I drag her as far away as I can, meters.

This is not how it was supposed to end. We were going to have some time apart, but it was just temporary. We were meant to be together. I hold her, terrified of her stillness. I am paralyzed with regrets.

I feel the heat a split-second before the explosion, and it’s too late. Everything goes black.