Roadkill

You couldn’t have asked for a better day at the practice diamond. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky and the sun was comfortingly warm. It was one of those days where the heat from the sun and the cool breeze of the wind came together in perfect harmony. Springtime in Texas—there’s nothing quite like it. 

Mike held up his glove in front of his face. There was a loud, crisp ‘pop!’ as the baseball caught the webbing of his glove. 

“Dang, dude, are you trying to take my eye out or what?” 

Mike winced as the impact of the catch stung his hand, sending vibrations through his fingers and lower forearm. He chuckled and shook his head in a mixture of pride and disbelief. That was an impressive toss.

“Shake it off, Dad! I’m trying to get my velo’ up so I can make All-Stars this year.”

“It’s not just about how hard you throw—it’s about fundamentals and doing all the little things right. Let’s practice some fly balls. You ready?”

“Ready.”

Mike took a few steps back, then crow-hopped forward and sailed the ball as high he could. He quickly realized that he threw it entirely too far, and that Will had no chance of making the catch. Mike tracked the ball as it sailed high into air, losing it among the—clouds? There were no clouds a moment ago…

As if it hit a brick wall, the ball plummeted straight to the dirt, and landed with a thud where Will should’ve been standing.

“Will?”

The once-blue sky was now a gravestone gray, and an icy rush of wind ripped through the park, chilling Mike to the bone. The smell of impending rain came, and with it—doom. 

The wind raged. Its deafening howl disoriented Mike, making it impossible to hear anything other than the catastrophic thoughts racing through his mind. A pit formed in his stomach. His heart pounded like a marching bass drum. Something terrible loomed in the atmosphere. Mike scanned the park for any sign of his boy. In every direction he looked, but there was no sign of him anywhere.

            “WILL!” Mike shouted desperately.

           Mike's head whipped to the left, then to the right as his frenzied search continued. His breathing labored as his chest tightened with fear. Suddenly, the sound of an accelerating truck engine could be heard directly behind him. 

Mike spun around and was immediately met with the sound of a blaring horn and blinding high beams. The truck was so close it would certainly kill him. He dove out of the way and hit the dirt hard, barely escaping impact. 

With his face buried in the ground, Mike could only hear what happened next. As the truck sped into the distance, the diminishing roar of the engine was abruptly interrupted by three distinct sounds, each one more disturbing than the one before it: squealing brakes, a crash, and a woman screaming in horror. Panicked, Mike pushed himself off the ground and staggered to his feet. Somehow, he was no longer in the park.

Mike now walked down a long residential street. It was his street, but appeared as if someone had stretched it thin from end to end. The familiar houses on each side were distorted like a funhouse mirror. The air was thick with a palpable stillness, and the shadows cast by the odd streetlamps held an eerie sense of dread. His neighbors watched him as he walked—their pale faces pitied him for what he was about to see.

Mike’s heart felt like it was kicking out of his chest and into his ears. A large group of people huddled together in a circle at the end of the street. As he approached them, Mike despairingly pushed his way toward the center of the crowd.

“GET OUT OF THE WAY!” He roared.

As he broke through the last line of onlookers, he saw Will’s bicycle mangled on the ground with its front axle crushed and handlebars bent. As he stood over the wreckage, Mike noticed streaks of blood spattered across the road. 

"He's okay...he's okay," he whispered shakily to himself. 

Mike followed the trail of blood to his left, searching for anything that could validate the lie he knew he had just told himself. Ten feet away, the streaks found their source. Mike looked up, and that’s when he saw him.

Jena sat crumpled in the street, weeping in utter agony as she rocked Will back and forth in her arms. 

"My little boy! Not my baby boy!" She struggled to eke out the words.

Mike ran to them and fell to his knees. He looked down at his precious son, who now lied limp and lifeless in his mother's arms. Mike reached out and assessed Will's body. His clothes were torn, and he had burn-like marks on his arms and hands. His left arm had been broken so badly it was turned around at the elbow, and his face was swollen beyond recognition. 

“No-no-no-no-no…”

Mike cradled the back of Will’s head in his hand; it was sticky and warm with blood. He shook Will in desperation to rouse him. 

"Will!" he cried, but there was no response. He shook him again.

"Hey, Will?” His voice quivered weakly. “I need you to wake up for me, okay?" 

Will remained still. Panic now engulfed him as he started administering CPR. 

"Come on, Will! You need to breathe." He began to sob. "Please breathe for me buddy..."

Mike continued his percussions. He could not—would not—accept this. He endeavored with all the might he could muster, yet despite his best efforts, the light never returned to Will's half-open gaze. Jena turned on him in a fit of rage.

“You!” Her wrathful voice cut through the air and slashed him in the heart. “Our son is dead because of you!”

Mike looked up to see Jena glaring at him; filled with fire and fury, her eyes crushed him like a black hole.

“Get him away from me,” she ordered. 

The crowd of onlookers pressed in on him from all sides like vultures circling a freshly dead carcass. Mike felt himself pulled back into the crowd, away from Will and Jena. He struggled to break free, but too many hands gripped him.

“Jena, please don’t do this!” Mike shouted. “I know it’s all my fault!”

As the crowed dragged him down the street, their condemnations echoed in a chorus of hushed whispers.

“What a terrible husband.”

“The poor boy! How could his father let this happen?”

“Such a shame. He was so young…”

Helpless, Mike could do nothing but watch as his wife and son slipped further and further out of reach. Unable to bear the sight any longer, Mike closed his eyes as they burned with tears. Eyes still shut, Jena’s voice echoed from the distance.

“Open your eyes, Mike.”

Mike tried to open his eyes, but they wouldn’t budge.

“Open your eyes, Mike!” He tried even harder, but it didn’t matter. It was as if someone had glued his eyelids together.

Mike heard Jena’s voice again, but this time like thunder crashing down around him.

“MIKE! OPEN YOUR EYES AND LOOK AT WHAT YOU'VE DONE!”

Mike opened his eyes. He was no longer in the street, but back in the darkness of his bedroom. A different day—the same bad dream.