A '66 Thunderbird was all I needed. I'd slam the candy-painted door as I collapsed into the plush cream-leather driver's seat. I'd toss my bag in the backseat, now a useless remnant of a previous life. Sliding the key into the ignition, I'd check my lipstick in the rearview mirror and adjust the radio tuner- "Born in the USA" would blare through my speakers. Definitively American, but completely subversive. I'd plant my sole on the accelerator and watch as the brown dust plumed behind the rear fender.
The rocks would watch me speed by as my hair whipped wildly around my face and neck. The jackrabbits would stare in awe and disapproval, but only momentarily before scattering back into the brambles. The sky would wrap my horizon, offering a momentary feeling of continuity before the opposite side of the canyon came roaring into vision. The troopers would all know my name, and they'd shout and shout as I covered their cruisers in dirt.
But I wouldn't hear. I'd see everything, though. I'd see almost too much. The life I had, and the life I acquired on my own volition. I'd see the nights I drank or cried or screamed myself to sleep over things that I thought I couldn't control. I'd see the way I'd looked at them and the way they'd looked at me. There would be sadness in that moment.
But what I'd feel. Oh, what I'd feel. In moments my chrome wheels would be suspended by nothing but the muggy desert air. The Jesus piece dangling from the mirror would become momentarily weightless as it tossed and turned, glinting in the fading sunlight. Air would, for one last time, fill my lungs as I gasped with anticipation and fear, euphoria and release. I'd sustain and sustain and sustain.
And sustain no more.
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