Jett Diamond

--Slam!
 

Whip lash; broke my spine last night. Felt my body slammed down on to
the sweat-soaked sheets and the now customary
pulsating of my heart coupled with the clammy nausea that seemed
to wake me nearly every night. I haven't slept well in what seems to be years,
but really, I know it's only been a few months. Maybe my tragic
flaw is my need to exaggerate, to take my mundane existence and break
it in two and create something grand. But this isn't an exaggeration – at least, I don't
think it is. But can I really know that? I closed my eyes. Sleep?
 

I woke up that morning. Early, but not too early; sun had still managed
to cut through the cracks in my curtain and blind me as I rolled out of bed onto
the cool floor. My sheets were damp – again. I had gotten used to it, them: the
constant dreams. Every night. Every day. The jarring sensations, the barbaric sounds of
metal raping metal; the way the glass shattered into every piece that could
ever exist and cut into me; the way the brakes were always so close but my foot could
never clamp down. I would see my body rocket through the
broken windshield, cast onto the pavement like a rag doll, laying broken
among the scattered shards.
God, now it's trickling into my waking hours too? I just can't – I gotta
get out of that. I moved into the bathroom, showered. Dull razor against sharp
skin. I cut myself shaving this morning. Again. My life keeps falling into these patterns
and I'm not sure where to go with it.
I walked back into my bedroom, water still clinging to the curve of my neck.
Was I going to live every day like this? But I had to shove that question
into the back of my mind – to question was only to give up my
being to the fear and control. So I ignored my subconscious prophesies and
dressed well. I always dress well. I'm all dolled up, with no place to go.
That's my real tragic flaw.
 

I sat down at the table and broke open a box of cereal. Something relatively
common place to start a now repetitive morning with. Outside of the apartment
I could see sunlight tracing the shadows of the city onto the pavement; and
all of the people were streaming through cafes and alleyways. It seems like I hadn't
been part of that rush for days, but in fact, I had just been out last night! Oh, God.
What am I going to do with myself?
 

Swept onto the streets, greeted the postman with our ritualistic nods and
merged into the flow of the city.
I didn't know where I was headed, but I walked with a sense of importance. Carried
myself with a sense of dignity or confidence that no one beside me could match.
I broke my stride; across the street. Who the hell is that? The way her
hair brushed her cheeks and the way her lips met into such a gentle curve.
I felt an unnatural attraction – something far beyond love, lust, curiosity. Something
that danced with the speed of life, and pulled you into such a deadly
beautiful lock that you were left gasping for breath and clinging to what
you thought may be life.
 

I had to become her; I had to die with her. Turned on my heels
and moved with her. Behind her, across from her, but near her. It struck me
that she too walked with very little apparent purpose, but held herself
in such a way as to make those outside of our field of view see her as the Godsend.
Was she really my Godsend?
Slowed near Café Casse. She entered as I waited outside. I looked through the window
and saw her take a seat with a novel. Maybe she –
Shit. And there goes my train of thought.
 

I opened the door and made my move. Towards the counter. Ordered some sort of
bullshit over the top coffee or something. Too many flavors but
I've never been that into coffee anyways.
Grabbed the "complimentary" newspaper on the way out the door;
I took a seat outside of the café. Couldn't be too close to her.
Watched her through the glass. Couldn't be too sure
but thought I saw red traces of her lipstick linger on the white edge of her
cup. What bothered me most was the fact that even as close as I was to her I
still couldn't see the title of her book; the author; I couldn't see what the barista
had scrawled on her drink. But God, she had gorgeous hands.
Stared into the center of my coffee, couldn't see my own face.
I opened up newspaper. Flipped through a few pages and as usual there
was nothing to catch my eye. To take my breath away and leave me
inspired to change the world that's slowly
killing us all off.
Jerked my head up from a story on some corporate take over; looked over to her
when it really hit me – blackout – the familiar screech, the nauseating
sensation of rocketing through your own semi-intact windshield as you
feel the shards of glass digging into your arm.
Couldn't be sure if I was whole. My body was
ripped apart and I felt ready to die. In my head I was
begging, calling, pleading, just dying for someone to take me, to
just put me out of my misery.
No one could really hear me.
The screaming made me sick.
I think I felt myself vomit onto the hood. Did it
really even matter?
Foot caught in the seat belt as I dangle through the shattered remnants,
shrieking in pain. The horn from the other
still blaring out across the shocked-silent streets, maybe this time
the frame of another caught in between our collision;
I couldn't tell – blood had rushed to my face and spurted through the cuts,
Blinding me.
 

"Hey man, you alive in there? Somebody got a phone?"
Some middle-aged man crouched over me. Slowly opened my eyes, felt the familiar
jarring sting of nausea over take my body. I was dry heaving as a small café crowd
drew around me. Whispers of 'he's awake' 'what the hell was that' 'what's going on'
resonating in my throbbing skull. The man nearest to me, whom I can
only assume found me first, turned to me.
"Buddy, what happened to ya just now? You got a condition or somethin'?"
He seemed genuinely concerned. The Saints Among the Strangers.
"I…I think I fell. That's all. Must have, hit my head or something."
The only excuse I could get out. He looked at me,
puzzled. Apparently those around him felt the same.
"I'll be fine, really," was my fall back assurance. "But, you know, thank you.
A whole lot."
Picked myself up with support on the table I had fallen next to. Knees still weak but I
could feel that it had come. And gone. And for now,
I was safe.
What the hell had I been…?
Oh God.
Where is she?
I looked frantically; glances into the café, up an down the street which had
by now returned to its normal state of affairs. Oh God.
Where is she?
She had gone. In all the commotion, she had either held no interest in the
well being of a stranger, or become part of the crowd, and just as
they all had, slipped through my fingers in my post-crash haze.
Shit.
What am I going to do with myself?