Random Impulse: "It'll Be Fine" Part I

“Just throw her in the bed of the truck and cover her body up with the tarp!” someone yelled.

      My stomach curled at the smell of the vomit blowing through the wind. The full moon hanging in the sky glared and made it apparent it was everywhere—on my clothes, in the dirt, on the truck, in the grass. And the smell of blood mixed with the array of multi-colored chunks strewn across the hay field didn’t settle well either. How did we end up to this point? Was I going to be considered a murderer?

      Everything was replaying through my head. We were just driving, singing along to George Strait, and drinking. Then the accident happened. It happened so fast.

      “Come on, Whit, lighten up! It’ll be fine.” My friend Brandon was trying to cheer me up. Of course he was okay. Out of the 12-pack of Coors Light we had bought, he had consumed the majority. Three was my-not-so-lucky number. Two in a kuzy and one through funnel was just enough to make me mad. I thought a weekend at the lake with my friends would be a refreshing change from the college and sorority bull I put myself through every week. Instead, I end up in the middle of no where Alabama with throw up on my new shirt and a rip in my bathing suit underneath.

      I examined my ex-boyfriend’s little sister, Kim, lying limp in the bed of the ole Chevy. Her eyes were dark and her skin had goose bumps. It was pretty chilly outside.

      I walked over to my group of guy friends who were pacing back and forth making bald spots in the hay. Brandon was off to the side talking to the promiscuous, ugly, and used acquaintance he had brought with us on our ride down the asphalt. She was always in the way—her voice, her laughter… Everything was annoying and my entire group of guy friends was falling for her. I thought of it more as they were falling for her trap to catch an STD.  I would have talked to her with my fist if she hadn’t been such an asset to sober driving. Brandon’s hands wrapped around her skinny waist as she giggled into the chilly night air. How could they be doing that at a time like this? My stomach became even more knotted. If it wasn’t for her, then we wouldn’t be standing here in confusion with a half-dead girl on our hands.

      I was practically the only sober one for the time being besides the tramp over there. I couldn’t drive at a time like this anyways. The guys wouldn’t let me in case any other incident occurred along the way back to the lake house. I envisioned all my best friends back at the house having a great time without a care in the world, not realizing their friends who had gone to McDonalds were in a hay field with a practically dead girl lying in the back of the truck.

      “This is like the funniest thing ever. She is going to want to see this.” The tramp was taking pictures of her best friend lying in the bed of the truck, “I hope she isn’t dead.” And she kicked the body with her foot. “It’ll be fine.”

      We climbed in the truck with Brandon at the wheel. It didn’t seem like the best idea, but at the time, it didn’t seem like the worst either. One mile was all we had to drive. The truck cranked and we pulled out onto the road. The moon reflected on the hood of the truck in a distorted way as we cruised down the old back road. It was much quieter than before—everyone was silent and the music was playing at a low hum. As I stared at the moon on the hood of the truck, blue lights caught my attention up ahead.

      “Damnit. A road block. What the hell are we going to do now? We can’t drive through this!” Brandon said, concerned about the situation.

      My heart pounded as we drove closer. My eyes were fixated on the motion of the lights until I realized we were turning left. I freaked out, “What the hell are you doing we can’t avoid a road block. They’ll come find us! Turn around! Go back!”

      “I’m going to drive down here and hide in this loadin’ dock and they’ll never see us. Whit, they ain’t never gunna find us down here. We can’t go through a road block with Kim in the back of the truck like that. So stop worryin’.” Of course Brandon had to be the clever one—the one who was drunk and driving. And call me clever too, because I was riding with him.

.... To Be Continued....