He bought a pack of Rizlas and kept you waiting while he counted the change.
You stood perfectly still to hold the moment open and tried not to care
about how he stared at your tits. This was one of those nights where the world had ended
and you hoped it would begin again with an empty sky, the colour of an infected wound.
You could hear the failing beat of your heart over the intercom music
and looking at God, wondered if he had one.
Cars move so fast in the city; the streets belong to no-one
so you paid little heed to the traffic lights that changed
without a moment’s notice. The paramedics’ voices were snippets of sacred music
as they gathered around you on the ground and offered what medical care
they could. There’s nothing hopeful about the gaping wound
in your skull, and you wonder again how you ended
up under the neon lights of the gas station. You wonder how long you’ll be at the end
of the line while God counts his money and what cigarettes you’ll buy once
he’s done. From inside the window, you can see the yards of prayer beads wound
around his knuckles leading to the road outside to where a car had tried to change
lanes without first checking the crossroad was clear. You wonder if the driver cared
about who they hit. The tinny beat of the intercom music
is the sound of sirens too late to stop the bleeding, the kind of music
that might be played at your funeral. When your mother’s life had ended
the neighbourhood gathered in the tiny church to show that they’d cared.
As far as friendships go, you can’t think of the last one
that actually meant anything to you. You realise that it’s too late to change
that. The darkening blood from the wound
is thickening like gravy, with numb fingers you analyse the wound’s
exterior and understand. You’ve been dead for hours now, and the music
won’t stop playing through the intercom, God is still counting his change
and perhaps it’s a trick of the light but the grenadine-tinge to his skin implies that you’ve ended
up somewhere else entirely. The pictures painted of Hell have defined it as one
with flames licking up at the door, but Satan doesn’t care
if this place meets your requirements. The universe doesn’t care
about the aggregate of your fear, joy and suffering that still leaks from the wound
and clots in your hair. You long for a panacea but the gas station doesn’t stock one,
you search for one in the music
but the song finally seems to be ending.
God informs the cashier that he’s been short-changed.
Upon leaving, you’re careful to mask the quickening music
of your footsteps. You’re hoping fresh air would heal the wound, that the night would finally end
once you left the gas station. Nothing changes.
Beatrice Hughes is a Creative Writing student located in the West Midlands. She hopes her poetry conveys her enthusiasm for writing, albeit often a little dark.