Headlights and Wooden Thoughts: A Fictional Nonfiction.

The headlights blew me away as I was wandering back from the downtown. I was crossing over the crest of a hill when they hit, their halogen white freezing me to the spot like a deer. I was wild eyed, living my last seconds, drunk on fear and damn near pissing myself. The light was too bright, I lost all sense of distance, my muscles tightened in anticipation of the explosive destruction careening towards me, and a prayer was quickly being rattled off to whatever deity cared enough to listen. The impact never came; the car had seen me and screeched to a halt. I ran to safety on the far side of the road and tried not to glance over at my would-be butcher as it slinked away into the night. I was embarrassed, and my hands were shaking from the adrenaline that was coursing throughout my body. I sat down in the rain slicked grass in shock, and closed my eyes. For a moment I had been dead; smashed up on the road on a crappy dark night. I had felt my life leave, ascend somewhere far above and then hurtle back to earth with such force and such furious speed that it had driven emotion straight from my body. I sat there, on the grass numb and gone. I was like a great oak; alive and forever unfeeling.