As I Lived

art by Gretchen Gales

by Lila-Josey James

Content warning: LGBTQ murder

I’m not dead yet, and the drive is beautiful. We’re on a bright country road. A horse trail really. As children, my Mother told us four to be safe back here! Our county’s roads are ancient Powhatan paths, which themselves were once simple deer trails. Now, there are large gravel rocks where pavement might be in a decade or two.

Great dust clouds kick up behind Randy’s tires. We drift around another turn, and I slide in the back. In the dust, I feel the truck pulling at my side. It stings and is warm.

To the right, there’s an irrigation ditch. Farmers and critters make use of it alike. Albeit, for very different reasons.

There are horses, cows, and even goats munching on hay along the way. Their earthly scent assaults me. I can’t help but think “me too” on seeing the cow’s yellow ear tags.

 I’m hogtied and rolling in the truck bed with loose lumber. The turns are becoming a problem. The boys never took their knife out. Even after binding my hands, they stared in fright. Randy mentioned wanting to have more fun, but I think he was just too terrified to touch.

Each turn pulls the knife out a bit further. Until the bolster fully catches one of the many two by fours. The bleeding quickens. Great pools collect in the blue truck bed’s divots running along the wood, and dripping out the gate. How much darker it seems than anything the sun touches.

I try writing their names with my nose to stay conscious. Randy is driving, Andrew is sliding right on his phone, and Carl twitches riding bitch. I think he feels me slipping, because for no reason he stops shouting and turns to stare at me. His face is pure horror when he sees their names as bloody sigils.

My last breath is a laugh. Fucking Carl out of all people is captivatied. My departure is pulling all hope from his eyes. Creating a moment of clarity which Carl can’t contain.

We round a corner drifting at high speed. It’s the forty-five degree compound turn a mile before their house. As we curve, the wind sways the trees. I’m pulled by centripetal force right out of my body. Making it a smooth and natural movement.

To be precise, I die and leave my body before it hits the other side of the truck.

“This is fucked.” Carl turns Andrew’s head.

“Shit, don’t be a bitch now Carl. What the fuck you’d think was gonna happen?” Andrew says.

“Fuck, did it die?” Randy asks.

“Looks that way. Couldn’t even make it to the house.” Andrew laughs.

Randy squeezes the steering wheel at ten and three.

“Just dump it here.” Andrew points to the ditch.

Randy stops dead center in the road. The body slams into the cab. With little effort, the three toss it in the irrigation ditch. The only ceremony comes from circling vultures, and they do caw with delight.

They brush leaves and top soil over my bare skin. Only the insects check to see if I’m alright. To their glee, I am not.

“Make sure the feets are covered.” Randy throws a clump of litter and leaves. Andrew starts to cough, and Carl lights a cigarette as Andrew finishes.

It takes less than two minutes, then they drive off. They leave the body there. No final insults, no told ya tranny. Just a frenzy now dead in a ditch.

I hover above and feel no pain. Strange how much kinder our eyes are from the outside. The instant I let go of this flesh, I flash and appear in a front yard.

It’s a patchwork of dried pine needles, red ants, and islands of green. There’s a red sign by the drive in the front. It looks normal for the area, save for the fact Carl is pacing in the upstairs window.

As I float up, I see the truck bed has been cleaned. Pools of red wine bubbles linger around the garage drain. There’s several drops marking the truck’s path. In the night, it’s too akin to sift out of the darkness.

I stare at the three men inside. Two are drinking, and Carl is still pacing. Andrew’s cigarette has completely turned to ash. Randy grabs Carl and throws him on the couch.

“Damn Randy,” Carl says.

Randy slaps him.

“ I’ll cut your fucking tongue out before you take us down.” Randy flicks open his pocket knife pointing at Andrew’s mouth.

“Jesus Randy, it’s soaked.” Andrew yelps. “I don’t want to taste that shit. I’ll get AIDs.”

“Ah fuck, Randy.” Carl starts to whimper.

“Jesuss, Randy, your hands are all fucked up.” Andrew grabs Randy’s right forearm.

“Fuck off,” Randy flings his arm away.  “ That bitch scratched up your face.”

Andrew feels the four lines I dragged across his face. Pieces of my white nail polish are still stuck in the cuts. He laughs as his fingertips soak.

“Damn, I didn’t even notice.” Andrew laughs.

I know I can’t stay for too much longer. I feel that where my knees used to be. Something is sweetly saying to move along. So, I give in to this force, blink, and it becomes morning. This time, I’m in the cab.

The three boys are showered, shaved, and slumped in the truck. There’s a box in the back where I died. It’s full of all our belongings. My favorite shirt is peeking out the side. All red and ripe like a midsummer strawberry.

Randy rubs his baggy eyes as he turns on the country road. The truck veers off. The front right wheel catches a ditch. The truck rides along like a monorail, bouncing so the gate pops down.

 Randy fights the earth. Yanking the wheel left, the truck pops up and spits out dirt. There still isn’t enough time, and they mow down a metal mailbox. When I open my eyes, there’s a fury of lights. An unnatural blue and red. As the trees begin to rustle, I see a slender woman shine white light on my shirt.                                                                               

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Gretchen Gales is a writer, an educator, and an artist who loves exploring themes of nostalgia, history, memory, and neurodivergence through her art. Her work has been published in Cream City Review, The New Southern Fugitives, Manhattanville Review, and others. See more of her work at www.writinggales.com.