The truck cuts in front of me and I need to slam on the brakes to not smash into the TRUMP bumper sticker on the fender. There’s a “LET’S GO BRANDON!” sticker in the corner of the cab window. It’s too dark to see the driver but his (I assume it’s a he) red taillights flash in my face as he suddenly slows down to well below the speed limit. What was the point of cutting me off if you’re going to slow down? He must be exiting. Please tell me he’s exiting.
The exit goes by. He does not turn off.
I check my rear and side mirrors. I’ll just get around him and that will be that. Unfortunately, there’s a steady stream of cars not willing to let me in because I’m going too slow. Or, rather, Brandon is going too slow. I finally manage to find a gap and wedge myself in, but somehow Brandon has slid in front of me. Again. And slammed the brakes. Again. Fine. I’ll move around him the other way. Brandon’s playing Pac Man — eating up the dotted white lines between the two lanes like they’re scoring him points. I could change lanes again, but it looks like he’s drifting back over. Wait. He’s fully in this lane now. Great, now’s my chance. I slide right and — shit. He cuts in front of me again. I swear I can see a shit-eating grin on his face, the streetlamps shining off his white teeth.
I close my eyes and try to breathe through it, but already I can feel my pulse racing. Wait, what day is it? I glance at the sky. Between the rows of halogen lights, a perfectly round, white orb sneers down at me. Oh no.
My fingers clutch the steering wheel, my hair pricks my scalp and feels like it’s standing on end. I feel a growl rising in my throat and my foot stomps on the accelerator. Not now. Shit! My clothes seem to stretch under bulging tendons and sinewy muscle. A howl flies from my throat. I feel like I’m looking down on myself from behind myself, my conscious mind far away. I can see myself snarling, wanting to bite and tear this driver in front of me.
My aging Subaru kicks into a higher gear. There’s just inches between my snarling engine and his rear fender. I breathe steam through my flared nostrils, pumping the accelerator again. Impact. My Subi crunches into the back of his stupid little truck. There’s a high pitched squealing sound as something gets lodged in my engine. I don’t care. I keep gunning the throttle. I want to see the back of his head in front of my face. I want to taste his sweaty fear. The back of the truck is lifted on top of the hood of my car and smashes the my windshield. I rip through my seatbelt and climb out, pouncing onto the bed of his truck.
Finally, he turns. I see his too blue eyes for a minute before I smash through the window and pull him out head-first, sinking my sharp teeth into his stupid throat.
Actually.
I take another deep breath, slow down, and wait for an opportunity to safely pass. I mentally add one more item to a list in my head of things I should talk to my therapist about on Thursday.
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