Intrusive thoughts are our inner demons. They’re implanted and persevered, they’re the hardest things to forget. When spliced with disorders they cause a real mess. Like oceans crashing inside your cranium, just hitting every wall- relentless and powerful, people fold to their own minds. These are thoughts that make you uncomfortable. They’ve repetitive and hard to escape and normally… Normally they are aggressive, sexual, or ass backwards religious psycho babble.
But if you’re depressed, well. If you’re full of anxiety…
“how many cars do you think go off the road here?”
you dont ponder the words before letting them slip off your tongue and past your thin lips. This is something you’ve had stored in the back of your head since freshman year of high school. It’s not meant to sound morbid, it’s not meant to be dark, or sad, or profound. It just is. Somewhere in your cave of a chest you know deep, deep down that a number of cars must. It’s too convenient for those that dont want to be here and too open for distracted drivers who are texting. Their last words something about study hall or smoking pot in the back lot.
bodies of water made you nervous. The size is not what matters, nor the depth. It wasn’t actual stories that made you respect lakes, rivers, oceans, swamps, ponds. It was your imagination. it came up with worse news headlines than you had ever read in the Union Leader. Gruesome titles that would either drive you to read them or make you turn the page. It would depend on the day.
And once your mind catches wind of rotten imagery, well, it has the tendency to run too far with it. For too long. On too many occasions.
The spot you’re talking about, the one that always sends bells and whistles off in your head. It’s nestled along a back road in your town, surrounded by trees and nothingness. The road lays right between two fairly good sized bodies of water. Not oceans, not lakes, just dark, unwelcoming liquid on either side. There are guard rails, kind of. They dont last long and the metal is contorted in places, bent and pathetic. It didn’t make you feel any safer.
In your imagination it’s the coldest water you know and it’s dark, dark, pitch black under the surface. Like ink, like midnight, like loneliness. In your mind, much like quicksand, once you’re in- you dont get out.
Constantly in your head like a bad dream, like a straight up nightmare, you see the car you’re in veering off the road. In your head like a nightmare, sinking heavy to the bottom to be alone forever. your cold, metal coffin flooded like your head.
You imagine the water damage to the car, to yourself over time. In your head like a nightmare, the bloating and decay, the rust and the rot. You could describe what would happen to your fingernails, teeth, eyelids, organs, skin. Your limbs, your blood vessels, your hair. You had tortured yourself and read about it all.
There are a lot of variables that change the outcome of a decaying body that is going through the process in water. Oxygen levels, acidity levels, the temperate, the state of said body when left for the deep. These things matter. They’re the reason fully intact bodies of soldiers are being pulled out of peat bogs after hundreds of years while beauty queens are turning up in lakes with their limbs barely hanging on after only a week of soak time.
The only things these two have in common is they were probably punctured in the gut or intestines. Doing so, whether it be done with bullets or a blade, makes an escape for all of that methane gas the body produces. This is key because whatever body you leave perfect will bloat and float, right to the surface of what sealed their certain death.
After six months in the ocean bones would dissolve due to mineralization. In fresh water they might be intact but they would find new places to rest. their vessel just a memory.
“Probably not many, probably eleven tops.”
Eleven seemed like many to you. Eleven cars could mean as many as fifty five people underneath. That’s at least eleven thousand three hundred and thirty bones dissolving down there and that doesnt even include the small ones not worth mentioning. Fifty five bloated bellies, lifting the bodies to press against the shitty upholstery of every car. One hundred and ten pairs of feet, one hundred and ten pairs of hands, all with the possibility of falling off after only twenty four hours.
“eleven is a large number,” you mumble and carry on watching the water pass. “eleven is a very large number.”