Fictional Writing

Short Story-The Rest Stop

She sat at the Georgia Rest Area, afraid to turn her car on.  She couldn’t remember how long she had been sitting there. Long enough for the tears that she had been crying to leave tear stains on her checks. Long enough for the shaking in her bones to have stopped. The realization of what had almost happened had hit her like a wave. She had almost died. 

This wasn’t the first time an car accident had almost happened.  It was something about this particular incident that had shook her to the core, though.  As she sat and recalled all the times she had called a friend or family member to tell them about the idiot that had almost ran her into a barrier or t-boned her at the intersection. All the near death experiences that she would laugh off and think nothing else of. This time though it scared her.  She had been traveling interstate 10 West leaving Mississippi headed home, when an 18 wheeler began to merge into the lane she was doing 80 miles per hour in.  She realized when the truck continued to merge that she was in the truck drivers blind spot. As she swerved onto the grass to avoid being hit she laid down on the horn of her car. The truck continued to merge pushing her further into the grass, as if he didn’t hear her horn blaring.  The car in front of her speed up trying to give her room to clear the truck.  

She saw the bridge ahead of her, she didn’t have enough time.  She couldn’t pick up speed.  In that same instance she thought no one knew where she was. She hadn’t called any family members to let them know she was on the road.  None of her friends knew she was headed back home today. No one would even look for her until Monday when she didn’t show up for work.  If she died right here on I-10 who would know to come claim her body. She didn’t have anyone. She would die in this car on this road all by herself. In her car alone.  The truck swerved back into the right lane and she was able to safely get back into her lane. She maintained her speed and repeated to herself over and over that it was ok, she was ok. She didn’t reduce her speed, she didn’t switch lanes she just continued to drive passing each mile marker until she saw the Louisiana State Line. She then merged into the right lane and got off at the rest area exit.  She wouldn’t cry, she wasn’t a cryer she was strong. She had survived worse, she had lived through so much.  She had always come out unscathed. She had driven the interstates more than once headed north, south, east and west, putting thousands and thousands of miles on the many vehicles she had owned and rented in the past.  She was an experienced driver. 

She was strong. 

She was strong. 

She would not cry. 

As she began to shake she realized she was in shock. Her body had had enough of being strong. She felt the pressure headache and the tears began to flow.  They were stubborn at first then they flowed more freely.  As she sat there at the rest area she cried. She cried so long that she almost forgot why she had began crying in the first place.  She hadn’t died, but she could have. No one knew where she was, but she would continue driving. Eventually. She would make it to home. She would rest. She would continue to move on with her life. Alone. She wouldn’t laugh about this near death experience. She may never speak of it again. 

She was strong. 

She was strong. 

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