Death is but a Door

prolouge

It's midnight and I'm driving down old Route 8. The distant hum of music whispers in the background and I slowly nod my head to the beat trying to drum myself awake. In the distance, I spot the sign marking provincial Hillsdale—5 miles. I know that I'm close. Just a little longer and then I can slip back through the unlocked door before my mom even questions why I stayed out past curfew.

I slap my own face, pull at my eyelids, and turn the radio up louder, trying to escape the transient feeling of sleep. My head wobbles back and forth, eyes closing. It won't hurt anything if I just close them for a minute, I tell myself. But before I can even realize that I've slipped into sleep, my forehead hits the wheel jolting me awake with a start. A pool ofdrivel glistens against the brown leather where my head was only moments before.

A curious deer stands in the middle of the road staring blankly at me. I slam on the brakes, cursing under my breath, and the car comes to a jolted stop inches away from the deer's antlers. I close my eyes, breathing out a sigh of relief and rubbing my fingers across the grisly cut that is now lined across my forehead.

I take a deep breath, feeling my face with my hands, which are shaking uncontrollably. There just seems to be the one deep cut across my forehead, which is throbbing. Other than that, I seem to be fine, just shaken up. I surely can hide it in the morning.

Leaning my head back against the old truck's head rest, I let out a cold breath, nonplussed as to how I managed to get by with only a few scratches.

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