Nothing 4.0

Throwing the car into fifth shift, I floor the gas. Exhaust piles high out of the pipe, choking the outer walls of my rear tires and cascading around the intricate patterns on the edges of the windows. The pull of gravity throws me back against the seat, and I grip the steering wheel. I won’t back out of this. I need to do this, to finish it. Glancing at the speedometer, I shove the car into sixth and place my hand back on the steering wheel.

Lights are dancing outside my window; they blend into each other and mingle, pressing close to the glass and to each other, high as a drug dealer in Bangkok. As I cling to the wheel, the colours spiral out of control. They seep in through the windows and push their way into my heated skin, into my eyes, weaving throughout my hair. I am colour.

The windshield is soon dotted with splashes of violet and lime, copper and fuchsia. Windshield wipers do nothing to eradicate them, and I lean forward. The road is lost in layers of clouds. Street lamps are refusing to do their jobs, and I’m weaving in and out of lanes, through the night towards the end of the world. The sound of my engine spitting and coughing and wheezing out of exhaustion and slavery echoes, and I’m in a tunnel. Wait, a light. Maybe. My breathing accelerates along with the car. There’s a wall, a divider.

Brake, BRAKE!

Feet fumbling for the brake, peddling through the air without success.

BRAKE! BRA—

“Nissa!”

My car slams hood-first into the divider. The sound is deafening, and I gasp before flying forward and out the windshield, a crude entrance into the crisp night.