Sheet of Flame

I swerve out of the way, just barely missing him, and later I would think that he must’ve walked in front of me. A stream of cars pass by, swerving away from me this time, as I’ve managed to stop halfway between lanes. He comes up on the right of my car, all smiles, and apologizes as best he can in the storm. It’s a slight grin and a half smirk, projecting honesty, and his hair’s plastered to his face. His eyes dart over the inside of my jeep and he lets himself in.

Can’t recall inviting him, I think, but he’s started chatting away about where he’s going and how he can just ride with me until then if that’s alright. Smiling, I nod a little and tell him that he’s welcome to stay until his stop, and he throws a worn-out backpack in the backseat. People are still attempting to avoid me and when I put on my turn signal I swear there’s a thousand and one obscenities muttered about my mother or other relative-of-choice. The lights blur as I pull into the correct lane and speed off.

He’s still talking. The only time he stops is to light himself a cigarette, presumably something inexpensive, without bothering to ask me first. Drenched still, but seemingly warm enough from the cigarette, he starts with his name. Guy, he says, but not like the one who wanted to blow up Parliament but like the one from the book. He asks me if I’ve ever read any Bradbury and I nod, he brightens up. I explain that I’ve not read that book in particular and he droops a bit but quickly recovers and asks my own name.

With a little hesitation, I tell him my name’s Vincent. Rain splatters against the windshield and the constant sound of wipers only enhances the silence after my name. Then Guy grins, a little crookedly, and goes on about how there was this movie where the main character, with my name, tried to become an astronaut by taking the place of a better person, genetically speaking. I’m not really sure how to take this, so I laugh a little nervously and mention that I’ve seen it. Good movie, I tell him.

We both go silent this time as the lamps on the highway flicker across the hood and windshield like a strobe light. The inside of the jeep illuminates each time we pass one, very briefly, and when it’s gone only the glow from his cigarette remains. Each time he takes a drag, it gets a little bit brighter and then darkens back to a sullen orange mixed with black. As he stretches out a bit, he seems to realize that his smoking has started to fill the interior and so he rolls the window down, even though it’s raining.

The smoke is quickly pulled from around his face to the cold abyss outside the window and the downpour drives a few drops through the crack and onto his still wet body. Somewhere ahead of us I can make out the taillights on some smaller car, but it’s far enough away to just be two pinpricks of hazy red light. An exit sign pops up, seemingly out of nowhere, and I’m near empty so I make my way to the far lane and comment about how there doesn’t seem to be that many people on the road. He shrugs and shivers a bit before flicking the filter out the window and closing it.

The off ramp ends in a small patch of civilization, just a motel and a gas station but it’s better than nothing. I pull into the dusty station and park at the closest pump to the road, like we’re some sort of intruder. The awning is covering us, so Guy steps out and stretches while I slide my card into the appropriate slot. The lights on the pad come to life. When I’m done, I wave to the man sitting behind the bulletproof glass across the lot, but he doesn’t wave back.

Guy gets back in while taking his shirt off and wrings it out over the pavement before flinging it into his backpack. The dash glows just bright enough to let his tattoo stand out. Of course, he notices me watching him. It’s an angel, he tells me, with the wings folded over his shoulders and around his torso to form an embrace. He points out that the arms are locked around his heart, holding tightly, and that its eyes are closed and weeping. That’s just a little depressing, I tell him. He nods and pulls his necklace from around the back of his neck.

Dogtags, three of them, and a very small cross. For the first time since we’ve met, Guy drops into a serious tone as he explains his tags. He goes on to tell me that he was in the army not too long ago and that they have this system where everyone has a Battle Buddy. As he goes on, he grips his dogtags and slightly fidgets with them. The point of having a Battle Buddy is so that when you get lost or into something too deep for you to handle, they’re there to help you out. We’re all alone as we wander back onto the highway, and I can tell Guy’s crying.

He wipes the tears from his face with his forearm and continues, telling me that his Battle Buddy used to sit up front when they were in transit and he’d sit in the back behind the driver. One day in particular, Guy wanted to sit in the front and so his Battle Buddy willingly gave up his seat. The flashes from the few lights along the road glance over his chest and then his face, showing the angel weeping and then him doing the same in succession. While they were on their way, small rounds fire penetrated the cabin, bullets bounced around the back and one hit his Battle Buddy in the neck just above the collarbone.

I don’t know what to say, and we both go silent again. I’m almost in tears myself when I tell him that I’m sorry for his loss, and that it must have been horrible to go through. He half smiles and simply says that’s what the angel’s there for, as someone must be looking out for him. Wiping tears from my own eyes, trying to figure out why his story got to me so badly, I forget I’m driving.

Then we pummel through the guardrail at sixty-five miles per hour. I can tell we’re airborne for just a second but it feels like forever, that floating feeling in my stomach as we fall, and I watch the tree come closer. Someone screams and it takes a moment to register that it was me. My jeep crunches like a candy wrapper on impact and I throw my hands forward, trying to stop myself, but manage to catch the steering wheel in an awkward way. The snap from beneath my elbow is the only clue I get that it’s broken in three places and the wheel bends forward as my airbag inflates, then I scream again.

I must’ve passed out because when I wake up, Guy is sitting beside me looking up at the moon. He looks fine, like he wasn’t even part of the crash, but for some reason he’s not wearing his shoes. As if he were reading my mind, he lets me know that he took them off so he could feel the wet grass. I try to blink away the pain but the rain slams into my eyes each time, sending throbbing sensations of hurt and agony down my body. He tells me he thinks that I broke my arm, but I’m otherwise okay, and tomorrow will be a beautiful day. I want to ask him how the hell tomorrow’s going to be anything like beautiful, but can’t form the words. A small utter of the word why does manage to escape.

“Because tomorrow you’ll be alive,” he says.

Then he stands up and begins walking back to the road. Before he makes it there he stops and opens his mouth, trying to catch the rain.