Here we go again. The same routine week after week. It’s 4 a.m. on a Saturday morning, almost twenty four hours since he last slept.
I see him exit her house, the crisp cool air wrapping around him. He stands there for a second, absorbing the cool climate, allowing the screen door to close behind him. By “her house” I mean the girl’s house, the girl he spends quite a bit of time with, at least every Friday night.
It’s funny, he thinks he’s so sneaky, or rather, they both do. Her parents are home, yes—but who else in their right mind stays up until 4 a.m. just to “hang out” as he puts it? Everyone in that house is obviously asleep, besides him and the girl. And he always walks out flushed, a look of satisfaction apparent on his face.
This has happened every week for the past three months. He leaves her house, gets in, and then we drive off. Hardly anyone is out at that time of night. On a busy night we’ll see maybe six cars on the way to his house. He is by no means a bad driver, but sleep takes its toll. A few times he has fallen asleep slightly, drifting to the side of the road to be awoken by the sound of wheels on rumble strips. But we always make it home.
Right before we get to our urban neighborhood, he takes out his phone to disarm the alarm in his house quietly, as to not wake up his parents, I assume. It’s sort of amusing, watching him try and open the door to his house as quietly as possible, but it always creaks. Even from the driveway I can hear it.
But this night turned out differently. As I was saying, he walked out of her house, letting the crisp cool air wrap around him. But his facial expression was different this time. It didn’t have that satisfied look on it. Rather, there was disappointment present, even anger; something had not gone quite right. Perhaps it had something to do with his parents? I know there has been some tension between them lately. Who knows what it could’ve been though. I just sit out here in the driveway and wait for his return.
But I could tell something was different the moment we left. The way he slammed the door, to the way he took off. I initially believed he would fix whatever the problem was. Besides, I was always fixed when anything was broken.
* * *
He has never driven this fast. It was almost as if someone was chasing him; he seemed to be directing all the frustration he had towards the empty streets. As we left the neighborhoods of the suburban city and merged onto the dark and wet freeway, he stepped on the gas, accelerating to 60 mph, but then kept going. Next came 70, then 80, and then 90 mph. The speed we were going was unbelievable for the conditions the roads were in. Street lamps streamed by us as we passed the occasional car. I could tell he also wasn’t about to fall asleep this time, but a panic was starting to arise in me, we were going far too fast. This panic, though, was well placed.
The next moment felt like a lifetime. Neither of us saw the other car, the car that didn’t have its lights on. We hit them. Metal crunching and sparks flying, we started to skid along with the other car, crashing into a barrier on the side of the freeway where we were both stopped.
The scene was horrific. Bent metal, broken glass, burning rubber. Blood tinted the broken glass here and there, reflecting the street light as red. He was unconscious from hitting his head against the windshield which was all over the ground now. I seemed to be okay overall though, only the front of me appeared heavily damaged. The other car was a different story. The back of the Prius had collapsed in, but the front had been rammed into the barrier, completely smashing the front of the car. The concrete barrier itself had a large crack in it and was now leaning towards the other side of the freeway.  A limp arm hung out of the broken window, trickling blood down the side of the car.
I sat there, dazed, as somebody pulled up to help us, to call the police and paramedics. It wasn’t long before there were police all around, shutting down lanes and monitoring the scene. I assumed this was to protect us. I saw some passerby’s looking at us, catching myself wondering what they might be thinking about the whole scene. Someone then opened the door and removed him. I saw the paramedics take the other person away next; it was a woman. After her limp body was removed from the Prius, a tow truck connected to the front bumper and took it away, revealing a large pool of blood that had formed underneath it, mixing with oil that must have leaked from the car. I was then hooked to a tow truck.
The accident was on the news the next day. The women in the accident had died in the crash, and he was facing criminal charges as I was hauled away for repairing. I was dead for the moment, and so was a women, a mother trying to provide for her family by working the nightshift.
He would likely serve jail time for his ignorant act of rage after he awoke from his coma. I had met the end of my life, at least for now, along with another car, and the women.
But maybe it’s a bit unfair. The lady did have her lights off after all, and it was dark. I couldn’t even see her until it was too late. I just hope the family and judge understand that he was just mad and really didn’t mean any harm; he’s a good guy, he wouldn’t last in prison. Besides, couldn’t he fix this, the way I was always fixed? Someone had to be able to repair the situation. 
Hopefully the family understands this, that they know that the mother would be back and well in no time, just like I would be driving again in no time; if a car can be fixed, anything can be fixed. Death isn’t permanent, all that’s needed is a good mechanic.