Rest Stop

by Nat Cassidy

“Well, it’s summer,”

There’s only one proper response any mortal being can have to the smooth vocal stylings of Mr. Michael McDonald. “FUCK YESSSSS!”

Abe turns the music up to try to drown out his thoughts.

Trauma’s trauma, but I think some people are still just born assholes.”

Safe inside the store—so bright, so blissfully cool after even just a few moments of the muggy summer air—and he feels better. Sometimes capitalism knows how to hold you just right.

We’re all in this mess together. Things like religion, like nationalities, are just trivia. We’re all just bugs against the windshield of time, right?

Now, I’ve been Schrödinger-ized, Abe thinks. I’m living and dead. Just waiting for someone to open this box and find me in my true state.

When evil comes, Abraham, it does not wear a mask. It looks as plain as day.

Fear will do that. Fear makes you stupid.

But what’s the point of surviving if he sacrifices his damned humanity to do it?

We’re all just biding our time before we break, aren’t we? This is just the rest stop.

Is this the feeling of being broken? He wonders. Or is it the process of breaking? Is this how it feels to refuse to break? Or is every moment simply its own act of creation? Its own god, too holy for a name?