Blood and Asphalt
The sky is black and speckled with thousands of gleaming stars that sparkle like diamonds. The air is crisp and silent with a slight chill, like Death’s fingertips inching up your back. There’s a stretch of black with four perpendicular lines, two yellow tracing the spine of the road and two white on the outer sides. Other than the cobalt neon glow from a gas station sign and one lone sepia toned streetlamp, this stretch of Highway 108 is dim and dingy. There is a hum from the tires that reverberates in the cabin of a silver Jeep Cherokee, barely audible over the soft purr of the engine. The Jeep glides through the brisk night air like a gleaming arrow. In the backseat there is a boy, he is not quite a teenager. His head lolls like a pendulum as he fades in and out of consciousness from the long drive home.
