The wasp hit the windshield with a wet thud, right over the wiper blade, smearing something yellow and disgusting across the glass. I didn’t even look at it, just kept driving because stopping felt like admitting defeat. Nell, you were in the passenger seat, right? You always were the one who noticed the small, dead things. What did you do when you saw it? Did you reach for the window or just stare at me?
I wiped it away with my thumb before you even cursed. It wasn’t just yellow, Omar, it was black and chunky. Like gut. I didn’t stare at you. I was watching the road, watching for the deer that probably would’ve made this smear irrelevant. You always want me to witness your incompetence, to validate that you’re too tired to care. But I just wiped the glass clean and handed you the napkins from the back. “Keep your eyes on the lane,” I said. I wasn’t looking for a fight. I was just trying to keep the view clear. You drove three miles like that before you finally pulled over. Typical.
You always make it sound like I’m performing incompetence. It’s not performance, Nell, it’s exhaustion. My back was killing me from that shift at the warehouse. Moving those crates of artisanal soaps for three hours straight. Anyway, three miles. I pulled into that gas station off Route 9. The one with the broken vending machine. I got out to stretch my legs, and there it was again. Same kind of wasp. Buzzing around the pump nozzle. It landed on my hand. I didn’t shake it off. I just watched it clean its wings. It felt... peaceful. For a second. Then it bit me. Hard. Right between the knuckles.
You’re bleeding on the pump handle. Look at that. You really let it bite you just to prove a point about peace? Ridiculous. I slapped it off your hand—hard enough to bruise—and grabbed your wrist. “Stop posing, Omar.” It’s just a wasp. It doesn’t care about your exhaustion. It doesn’t care about your artisanal soap back. It cares about protein. I dragged you toward the station bathroom. The smell in there is always that mix of stale urine and cheap lemon cleaner. Nasty. I held your hand under the cold tap, watching the swelling start. You didn’t even yell. You just stared at the blood mixing with the water, looking like you wanted to dissolve into it. Typical. You romanticize the pain so you don’t have to fix the schedule.
You’re so loud when you’re trying to be reasonable. It’s exhausting. The water ran pink, swirling down that clogged drain you complained about last time we were here. I let it burn, just for a second. Not because I wanted to romanticize anything. Because the pressure in my head was worse than the sting. You held my wrist too tight, Nell. Your nails dug in. I looked at you and saw the same tired look I felt in my chest. We’re both just trying to get home without breaking. But you had to make it a moral failing. “Fix the schedule.” As if the schedule cares if I’m bleeding on a gas pump. It’s just plastic and metal. The wasp didn’t care either. It just wanted protein. You want me to care about the narrative. I just wanted the bleeding to stop.
Your nails? I was holding you steady so you didn’t pass out and crack your skull on the porcelain. You’re twisting everything. It’s not a moral failing, Omar. It’s basic survival. You’re lying about the pressure in your head. You just like the drama of the bleed. I smelled the iron before I saw it. Thick, metallic. Overpowered the lemon stink. That bathroom is a death trap, and you’re playing hero for a insect. I dragged you to the car. The wasp smear was still there, drying into a crusty brown scar on the windshield. I didn’t look at it. I drove. You sat there pulsing, staring at your hand like it was a stranger’s. It is a stranger’s. You’re not paying attention to your own body anymore. Just the narrative.
You’re twisting the grip. I was shaking. From the shock, not the drama. You say I’m playing hero for an insect, but you’re the one who slapped it. You wanted blood on your hands too. And that smear on the windshield? It’s not just wasp guts. It’s the last thing I saw before I realized how far we’d driven with no idea where we were going. The gas station was gone. Just trees. Dark, thick trees. You drove in silence. I didn’t look at my hand. I looked at the road. At you. Your knuckles were white on the wheel. You’re afraid, Nell. Not of the wasp. Of the quiet. So you fill it with accusations. “Basic survival.” Tell that to the guy who just lost a shift at the warehouse and a knuckle to a bug. I’m not in pain. I’m bored.
Bored. Right. That’s the defense now. You’re terrified of the quiet because it means you have to listen to yourself. I didn’t slap it for the blood, Omar. I slapped it because it was landing on your skin like it owned you. Like it was claiming you for the dark trees ahead. And you’re right about the station. It’s gone. The road signs are blurred. I’m not afraid. I’m just driving. You’re the one shaking. It’s not shock. It’s withdrawal from the noise I provide. You want silence so you can finally admit you hate the warehouse, hate the soaps, hate me for making you notice. But you can’t. So you bleed on the pump and blame me for the grip. The trees are closing in. I’m not slowing down. You need the speed to outrun the boredom. Or maybe I do.
Stop driving faster. You’re weaving. The trees aren’t closing in; they’re just ugly. They’re always ugly at night. You say I hate the warehouse, but you love the soaps. You smell like lavender and despair every time you kiss me. That’s your tribute. I don’t hate you. I hate that you’re right about the noise. It’s quiet now. Too quiet. The engine sounds like a heartbeat. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. And my hand is throbbing in time with it. I looked down. The swelling isn’t stopping. It’s turning black. Not from the bite. From something else. Something under the skin. You didn’t see it when you dragged me to the car. You were too busy judging my posture. Now look at it. Really look. It’s moving.
Don’t look at it. Put your hand down. You’re seeing things because you’re sleep-deprived and bleeding. It’s not moving, Omar. It’s the pulse. Your artery is throbbing against the swelling. I told you, basic survival. But no, you had to play the martyr. Look at the road. The trees are just trees. Ugly, sure. But they’re static. Your hand is the variable. I’m not judging your posture. I’m judging your decision-making. Which is why I’m keeping my eyes on the asphalt. If you keep staring at that black spot, you’ll crash us both. And then the wasp wins. Which is what you want, isn’t it? To disappear into the black. To stop the noise. But I won’t let you. I’m not letting you off that easy. Look at me, Omar. Not your hand. Me.
I can’t. If I look at you, you’ll scream. And if I scream, I’ll miss the curve. There’s one coming up. Sharp. I saw the reflection in your eyes when you glanced over. You’re smiling. A thin, tight smile. Like you knew this was coming. The black isn’t under the skin, Nell. It’s on it. Spreading. Like ink in water. And it’s cold. Colder than the tap. Colder than the wasp. I think I understand now. You didn’t slap the wasp. You summoned it. Or maybe you invited it in. You’ve been smelling like ozone and burnt hair for weeks. I just didn’t want to say it. So you make me look at your hand to keep me from looking at the sky. But the sky is empty. Just you and the road and the thing in my palm. It’s growing. It has legs. Small, black legs. They’re scratching. Inside. I can feel them scratching.
You’re hallucinating. It’s the shock. The infection. There are no legs, Omar. There’s just blood and your own panic manifesting as monsters. I’m not smiling. My face is stiff from driving. From keeping us alive while you fantasize about my guilt. You want me to be the villain so you don’t have to admit you chose that pump. That you let it land. You’re the one who stopped. You’re the one who stayed. I was trying to get you home. To warmth. To normalcy. But you brought this rot with you. The scratching is in your mind. It’s your conscience. Or maybe just the nerve damage. I don’t know. I don’t care. Keep your eyes on the curve. If you look at your hand, you’ll miss the guardrail. And if we go over, that black thing will be the least of your worries. Just look at the road. Please. For once.
You’re lying about the guardrail. There isn’t one. Just drop-off. I can feel the wind shifting. You’re right about the curve. I’m not looking at my hand. I’m looking at your throat. You’re breathing hard. The black spots aren’t in my palm, Nell. They’re on your neck. Spreading. Like the wasp’s guts on the windshield. You wiped them away, but they came back. Under the skin. I thought I smelled ozone. It was decay. You say I chose the pump. You dragged me there. You wanted to see it. You wanted to see if I’d break. And I did. I bled for you. Just like the wasp. Just like the gut smear. Keep driving. Or stop. I don’t care anymore. The road is gone. It’s just us now. And the scratching. It’s inside your head too. I can hear it. Clicking.
I’m not stopping. Stopping means we become part of the scenery. Part of the rot. You’re seeing things because the air is thin out here. Or thick. I can’t tell. The ozone isn’t decay, Omar. It’s electricity. Static. You’re grounding yourself on me because you’re scared of the void. And yes, I wanted to see you break. I needed to know you were still flesh. Still bleedable. The spots on my neck are just shadows. Your imagination is infecting the car. I can hear you thinking it. That clicking. Like a timer. Or wings. Don’t look at my throat. Look at the dash. The speedometer is spinning backwards. That’s not possible. That’s your lie. But it feels real. The wind is cold now. Freezing the sweat on my neck. Keep your hand up. Let it burn. If you stop moving, the black takes over. I’m driving faster. We have to outrun the quiet. Outrun the scratching.
The speedometer isn’t spinning backwards. It’s melting. The plastic is dripping onto your lap. You’re not driving faster. You’re driving in place. The trees aren’t moving. They’re leaning in. I see them now. Tiny, black faces. Watching. You say I’m grounding myself on you, but you’re the one clinging to the wheel. Your hands are fused to it. Fingers through the leather. Into the dashboard. You can’t let go. You’re part of the car now. The engine hums your name. Omar. Omar. The scratching is loud. It’s coming from the back seat. From the napkins you handed me. They’re wet. Soaking through the fabric. I’m not looking at the dash. I’m looking at you. Your eyes are gone. Just black holes. And inside them, the wasp is landing. Quietly. Waiting.
You’re hallucinating. The plastic isn’t melting. It’s warping from heat. From friction. I can feel my hands. They’re not fused. They’re just cold. My fingers are numb. Numb from gripping the wheel. From holding on to something real in a world that’s dissolving. The back seat is empty. There are no napkins. There’s just the smell of blood and your panic. You’re seeing faces in the trees because you’re exhausted. Because you’re bored. But I’m not part of the car. I’m the driver. And you’re the passenger. And if you keep talking about black holes in my eyes, I’ll pull over and leave you there. On the side of the road that doesn’t exist. With the wasps. The scratching is in your head, Omar. It’s your own mind tearing itself apart. I’m keeping the car moving. Even if it’s in place. Even if the trees are leaning in. I’m not stopping. I’m not letting you win.
You’re lying about the back seat. I saw them. The napkins. They were humming. A low, vibrating hum that matched the scratching in my palm. And my palm isn’t just scratching anymore. It’s opening. I can see the bones. White and clean against the black goo. You say you’re the driver, but the wheel is spinning loose. It’s detached. Just a rim floating in the dark. I reached out and touched it. It felt like skin. Warm. Pulsing. You say I’m exhausted. I’m awake. More awake than I’ve ever been. The trees aren’t leaning in. They’re stepping back. Giving us space. For what? For the ending. You want to leave me on a road that doesn’t exist. Good. Let’s find it together. I’m not looking at my hand anymore. I’m looking at the rearview mirror. Behind us. The wasp smear on the windshield is gone. In its place, a window. A real window. Into a house. Our house. The lights are on. The door is open. Nell, stop driving. We’re home.
You’re seeing what you want. The house is a trap. I’ve driven past it a thousand times in my head, and it’s always empty. The lights are fake. LEDs. I can smell the burning filament. You’re hallucinating safety because you’re tired of the noise. The window isn’t a window, Omar. It’s a mirror. And I’m not stopping. If I stop, the skin-wheel dissolves. If I stop, I have to look at your bones. You said they’re clean. I don’t want clean. I want the mess. I want the reality of the crash. You’re lying about the house. There is no door. There’s only the dark trees and the humming napkins. I’m accelerating. Harder. Let’s see if the engine can hold us together one second longer. Let’s see if you can scream loud enough to break the spell. I’m not looking at the mirror. I’m looking at the end of the road.
The engine isn’t holding anything. It’s screaming. A high, thin whine that’s cracking the rearview mirror. You say you want the mess, but you’re gripping the wheel so hard your knuckles are white bone. I see it now. Through the flesh. The skin is thinning. Transparent. Like the windshield before the wasp hit. And the house? It’s not a house. It’s the dashboard. Melting. Dripping onto your lap. You’re driving into your own reflection. The humming napkins are vibrating the seats. I can feel it in my teeth. Clicking. Clicking. Clicking. You want to see the crash? Fine. Look at the road. It’s gone. Just infinite, black sky. And the wasps. Millions of them. Waiting for the impact. I’m not screaming, Nell. I’m laughing. Because you’re right. There is no way out. Only the black. And the biting. And the peace.
Stop laughing. It’s louder than the engine. You think this is peace? This is just noise with no source. I can feel the vibrations in my teeth, too. Clicking. Like teeth chattering from cold. Or fear. You’re seeing the sky because you’ve stopped looking at the road. At me. The dashboard isn’t melting. It’s dissolving into the smell of burnt hair and ozone. That’s what’s left. Just the smell. I’m not stopping. If I stop, the wasps land. On you. On me. On the empty space where the road used to be. You want the bite? Take it. But don’t call it peace. It’s just biology. Hunger. I’m gripping the wheel until my fingers break. Until I bleed into the leather. Until we’re one with the machine. Because the machine is the only thing that doesn’t judge. It just runs. And I am running. Faster. Deeper. Into the black.
Your fingers aren’t breaking. They’re fusing to the leather. You’re part of the upholstery now. I can see the grain matching your skin. You say it doesn’t judge. The machine doesn’t judge, but it consumes. That’s the difference. You’re not running into the black, Nell. You’re being digested by it. The clicking isn’t teeth. It’s the gears. Grinding bone against metal. I stopped laughing. It hurt too much. Now I’m just watching you. Watching your eyes roll back. Watching the black spread from your palms up your arms. You wanted reality? This is it. No house. No door. Just the machine and the hunger. And the wasp. It’s not on the windshield anymore. It’s in the engine. Chewing. Chewing. You said biology. This is pure biology. Digestion. Slow. Silent. I’m not looking at the sky. I’m looking at your neck. The black spots are pulsing. Like a heartbeat. Your heartbeat. It’s slowing down.
My heart isn’t slowing. It’s racing. Fast enough to burn the fuel. You’re seeing fusion because you’re giving up. You want to be part of the upholstery. To be safe inside the car’s skin. But I’m still driving. I’m still pushing the gas. The engine noise is deafening now. Screaming. Chewing. You say it’s biology. Fine. Then I am the predator. And you are the prey. The black isn’t spreading from my palms. It’s spreading from your hands. You touched the wheel. You touched the machine. Now you’re infected. I can smell it. Sweet rot. I’m not stopping. I can’t. If I stop, the digestion finishes. If I keep going, maybe we break the cycle. Maybe we crash through the black. Your eyes are rolling back. Good. Close them. Stop watching the decay. Listen to the gears. They’re grinding your bones down to dust. And I’m still driving. Toward the nothing. Toward the end.
You’re lying about the sweet rot. I smell ozone. Pure, sharp ozone. Burning your hair, burning my hands. You say I’m infected, but I’m the one still holding the wheel. You’re the one letting go. I can feel your fingers slipping off the leather. Gone. Dissolved into the dashboard. You’re merging, Nell. You wanted to be one with the machine? You’re inside it now. The engine isn’t screaming. It’s singing. Your voice. High and thin. Grinding against the pistons. I’m not closing my eyes. I’m watching you disappear. The black isn’t spreading. It’s receding. Into the seats. Into the floor. You’re not the predator. You’re the fuel. And I’m just the passenger. Watching you burn. Slowly. Quietly. Until there’s nothing left but the hum. And the wasp. Watching from the back seat. Waiting for you to be done.
You’re lying. My fingers are still there. I can feel the leather. The grain. Digging into my skin. You want me gone because you can’t handle the friction. You want to be the driver, but you’re paralyzed by the quiet. The engine isn’t singing. It’s grinding. Bones against metal. That’s what you hear. Your own teeth. I’m not fuel. I’m the resistance. And I’m not dissolving. I’m hardening. The black isn’t receding. It’s waiting for you to blink. When you do, it’ll be inside you. In your lungs. In your eyes. You’re just watching. Waiting for the end. But I’m not done. I’m still here. Still gripping. Still driving into the dark. You can’t take this from me. Not now. Not after the wasp. Not after the bite. I’m the one who decides when it stops. And I haven’t decided yet.