The Accident

Will they ever know?

My cheek rests in a pothole, rain falls from the sky, pounding the dirt into thick mud. I’ll be an outline drawn with chalk soon. This is where they will point and say “the body was here” 

Open veins are seeing the setting sun, the clouds, the orange sky for the first time. My left hand is glued to the road in-front of my face. A pulp of flesh.

I don’t know where my other hand is. Where my legs are. 

I can feel the gravel between my teeth, smell the thick wet concrete. I wonder how much time has passed. 

“What will happen next?”

The sound of the wind brushing over the fields of corn stalk. 

The chewed tobacco is still wedged in between my gum and lips. Saliva pooling in my mouth. 

 I still feel alive. 

My mouth opens and closes. 

My goldfish did this all the time. When I was eight years old. It would open and close it's mouth as it swam in circles around and around it's fishbowl. 

Air pushes itself up my throat, crawling out of my mouth and creating ripples in the water that’s filled the pothole. I can taste anger, taste oil, taste blood, all of it coating my tongue. 

The detectives will point here and there and say “There was blood here and here. And this is where the body was found. And that’s where the bricknose ford truck was parked, the large portable concrete mixture was here, crushing his torso and presumably trapping him”

Their fingers will fly through the air, pointing at things that are no longer there. 

I can see it so clearly.

They will look at the Sergeant and go “Buck got you a coffee sir” 

As if they didn’t just draw an outline of my body with chalk. 

How I wish I could tell them now. Concrete has laid over me like a weighted blanket. Hiding my torso from my wobbly eyes that seem to lose focus. Everything blurring in and out. I try to command my body to move. For my legs to kick. For my arms to push. But nothing happens.  

The police will say “it’s simply an unusual accident clearly” 

My father will say "well he always was clumsy ever since he was a kid" and then he will lower his voice as if he's just about to tell a secret and whisper "always thought he was lacking...in the..." and he would tap his temple " learning, intelligence aspect".

All my life I was called a fool and now I will die like one.

I laugh. The sound cracking through the silence. I can feel death trickling through me. It’s cold fingers skating over my skin, caressing my mind. 

So foolish I was. If I could, I would kick myself.

I wonder if they’ll try and chip away at the concrete. Uncover the rest of my body. Like a fossil. 

Will they find out what I’m hiding? 

To think this is how it all ended. I need to find a way to tell them it was no accident.

I feel no fear, only bewildered and a strange sort of determination. It settles deep into my mind, a calming call. It all happened so fast. 

Journalists will question why I was there.

Police will conclude “Michael Noring was trying to pave the road leading to his property” 

Newspapers will print “The Silly Silly Fool Who Died By His Own Hands” 

A bubble of spit and blood expands from my lips before bursting. I am no Fool.

The rain has filled the pothole completely, my right eye now drowning in water. 

I wave my left eye around like a white flag. 

I surrender. If only to tell them what really happened. I'll surrender if you give me a microphone.

It wasn’t even supposed to rain today. 

Reporters will be questioning on televisions, wiggling their eyebrows, staring into the souls who are on the other side of the screen. 

“An accident. The poor man. What do you think Shelly? You think it was simply that. An accident?” 

I can no longer feel the 55 gallon concrete drum pinning me down, but I know it’s there. I must look like a devil crawling up from hell’s embrace. 

Arms stretched out in an attempt to drag oneself from the darkness. 

I want to tell Shelly “Fuck you, don't answer that question. You have no idea”,

I want to point the public in the right direction.

It’s a full circle. An animal eats an animal who ate an animal. 

I want to write down what happened. Cross out the false words. 

“Who was Michael Noring?” 

“A pavior, cement mason, an only child, a divorced man” 

“Michael Noring, dead at 62” 

I will die like this. A foolish man who tried to pave a road. Oh but how mistaken are they. I scream, frustration boiling out of me, like sweat.

“The only mystery is his hand. His hand was disfigured, beaten to a pulp” 

The Sergeant will brush over it, pile papers onto papers until there no mention of the hand. My hand. 

An accident in their eyes, is a crime in another’s. My left eye focuses on my burgundy truck parked ten meters away. Half off the road, the other half in the cornstalks. 

He will wait until I’m long dead, until the concrete has dried before he reports anything.

I have two options. Reveal my secret in order to tell the truth. Or hide my secrete and let them think I'm a fool, caught in an accident. What's worse being painted guilty, or as an idiot?

The corners of my mouth crawl apart. Like a married couple slowly separating. My lips widen, peeling back to reveal teeth.

The rain is slowly dying.

“A check-up, paving a road without a permit” He will say. “If only I arrived sooner” 

I wonder what photo they’ll use. My wedding photo? Cropped so that viewers can’t see my wife’s face? 

Will they mention the affair? The affair that broke my heart? That was no accident. 

“I’m sorry Michael, I’m sorry” she said. 

Apologies after apologies. 

I’m not cruel. The first part was an accident. Me in my truck colliding into something it shouldn’t. That was an accident. The digging, relocating a body…..that not so much. The paving…more complicated.  

Dirt road is easy to work with. Just doing what I do. Covering what once was there. It’s like apologies after the same mistake. Over and over again. Just adding another layer until all that’s left is heavy stale space between two people. Slowly hardening until it’s impossible to remove. But oh how the world works in mysterious ways. Because there was a third involved. A man who will take a sip from his coffee as he watches his coworkers take notes on the scene. An open cup, with no lid. Steam wafting up. A furry centipede decorating his upper lip. That fucker.  

Barbra always made me shave my moustache. “Michael! You know I hate the look” 

My teeth grind against each other. But you liked his Barbra. You liked his. 

He will sip his morning coffee while he surveys the scene, making sure everything goes smoothly. Case open. Case closed.  

That centipede will move up and down whilst he spins a story. A story of a man who paved a road. And he will end it like that. Cut short. A life for a life for a life. If only he didn’t see the body. If only he arrived an hour later. God the timing. I was simply burying the body. Standing in a dirt grave as the crushed stone, water and cement churned nearby. Creating the perfect concoction. I can still feel the heavy slap of concrete on my back. The shock vibrating up my spine. The force making me fall onto the body. This grave wasn’t supposed to be for me. How I tried to crawl out. I can still hear the crack and pop of my bones ricocheting through the air as the concrete drum crashed into my torso, pinning my flailing body. 

“Should’ve killed you sooner” He had said. 

What's worse? Letting him getting away with murder in turn preventing me from being known as one too?

Should I remain as a fool?

The light is slowly dimming, the wind dying to a gentle breeze. The clouds finally ceasing their spitting. I watch as a flap of skin on my hand waves a hello. I stare at my hand. Move. But my fingers remain still. A screech suddenly echoes through the air and my head jerks. It's the concrete drum, settling in for a slumber on my dying body. I wish I could rip his head from his body.

Wait.

I inhale, the sound mimicking that of a rattle snake. I lift my head. I can move it. But barely.

When my tongue meets the concrete it creates an impression. I think of his smugness as he looked at me struggling underneath the machine.

I know I'll be dead soon. But he's still alive and free. I may be a murderer, but I'm not the only one. I need one word. One word that needs to tell everyone what really happened. How it all started. Who would've been involved in something like this. A word that could point the public in the right direction. And maybe, just maybe I'll be an innocent man in everyone's eyes. Not a fool. Not a murderer but in fact an innocent heartbroken husband who was brutally murdered alongside his wife. And so I write the only word that comes to mind.

"Affair"

I hope his tears burn acidic down his cheeks. I hope he stays awake at night, burned with the memory of two bodies underneath a pile of concrete. I’m closer to my wife than I ever was. For we are buried so close now. I wonder how he feels about that. 

I smile.