Death Drives

My very first microfiction piece.

Death drives. I used to think that was just a poetic way of saying life is risky. But now I know better.

I saw it clearly after coming back from a trip to Tokyo. Over there, the streets felt orderly—like everyone had quietly agreed not to kill each other. But here? The moment I got behind the wheel again, I felt it: the tension, the chaos, the violence wrapped in steel and glass.

Every road is a battlefield. Pedestrians lurch into traffic. Cyclists weave like ghosts between trucks. Motorcycles scream past like they’re fleeing something. Everyone is rushing. Everyone is angry. And somewhere among us, Death is driving.

At first, it was just a thought I had at a red light—dark, but harmless. Then I started seeing things. A pair of headlights lingering in my mirror too long. A shadow in the passenger seat when I glance sideways. A cold breath on my neck when I run a yellow light. I started driving slower and quieter, like Death would leave me alone if I played nice. But every time I check the mirror, it's closer.

And now I’m terrified.

Because this morning, when I turned the key, the engine didn’t roar—it whispered. And Death was already there, in the seat beside me.

Smiling.