I left home with no intention of returning.
An empty house doesn’t qualify as a home, bricks and wood don’t talk to you. The only voices I heard were in my head. Their unkindness will die with me.
I needed fresh air, a change of scenery, a reason to believe that forty-four years hadn’t been a waste.
My old Chevy didn’t take too kindly to my decision. It wasn’t used to spinning its wheels, its rusty frame a stubborn piece of junk. But we got along fine, and about five miles out it knew resistance was futile.
I wasn’t turning back or stopping. It was the lonely road and miles of possibilities.
And optimism led me to the road less travelled. It was inconspicuous, if you blinked, you’d miss it. But I wasn’t looking for the obvious anyways.
Clouds of dust blocked out the road behind me, leaving me no choice but to keep driving.
I drove like a madman searching for redemption.
Finally, I saw them. I thought it was a mirage, but dirt roads don’t have them.
I slowed down, they sped up, and my Chevy and I were soon surrounded.
They were normal people, but their eyes changed colors like a chameleon.
I stepped out. They fell to their knees, their hands reaching out but not touching me. A man spoke, his eyes held me.
‘We’ve been waiting for you. All hail our mighty god!’
Their cheers lifted me above my depressing reality. And I floated till a gruff voice shook me.
‘Sir! Can you hear me?! We’ll get you to a hospital.’
I was found face down in the dirt, dehydrated and delusional.
Roads less travelled often lead to nowhere.
I was almost a god.
Now I’ll just settle on being a sad human being.
Writers must live and die with each story. Let me share How I Reincarnate as a Writer – One Story at a Time.