Cassandra O’Sullivan Sachar is a writer and associate English professor in Pennsylvania. A member of the Horror Writers Association, her work has appeared in publications including The Horror Zine, The Stygian Lepus, Wyldblood Magazine, and Tales from the Moonlit Path. She holds a Doctorate of Education with a Literacy Specialization from the University of Delaware and is working toward an MFA in Creative Writing at Wilkes University. Her novel, Darkness There but Something More, will be published by Wicked House Publishing in 2024. She has also served as the fiction editor at River & South Review. Read her work at https://cassandraosullivansachar.com/.
Tunnel Vision
Holding my breath upon entering the snake-like cave, violent images flash through my mind. I try to chase them away and focus on the road ahead of me, the literal light at the end of the tunnel, but the reel won’t stop. I envision cars crossing the center line and crashing into each other, shattering glass and crunching metal. I hear the futile screeches of brakes, the shrieks of shock and pain from the passengers as their bodies are crushed on impact. I think what it would be like to get stuck in here with a massive pile up of cars, trapped with demolished vehicles which could ignite into flame, imprisoned with nowhere to go, my fate sealed.
Go straight. Take deep breaths. You’re fine; it’s fine. You can do this.
I’ve turned down the music, a perky Taylor Swift song that in no way fits the gravity of my situation, so I’m not distracted.
I hate driving. I hate tunnels. I hate driving through tunnels.
But it’s a price I’m willing to pay for freedom.
From the trunk of the car, wrapped in a blue tarp we’d once used for camping, Will remains mum, no longer criticizing my driving. Finally, Will has no words, no words at all.
It’s not how I planned it, but plans change, just like people. Once upon a time, back in college, Will used to buy me flowers, much to the chagrin of my bitchy roommate whose so-called boyfriend only showed up at our apartment when he was drunk. I don’t think he ever even took her to McDonald’s. But how does that matter when, according to social media, she’s a successful real estate agent who appears happily married? It doesn’t matter. I need to concentrate on this drive.
And good for her, I guess. Even though she used to steal my food and then claim she didn’t, incriminating Cheeto dust still on her fingers, I wouldn’t have wished her life to end up like mine. My cracked rib throbs as this thought flits through my head, a dusty, inconsequential moth compared with the elephant in the room. I have bigger concerns than college roommates.
The drive to the cabin shouldn’t be too bad, as long as I can navigate my way with this old roadmap I found, having left my phone at home for safety. It’s 166 miles from point A to point B, staying away from toll roads to avoid camera and E-ZPass surveillance. According to the Google search I conducted anonymously at the public library, it should only take two hours and thirty-four minutes.
Lies.
Maybe if Will was driving that would be accurate, but his driving days are done, his fingers stiffening with rigor mortis, never to grip a steering wheel or grasp my arm. Never again to clench into a fist and punch me in the stomach, where the bruise wouldn’t show, when I burned his dinner. He said I could never get a recipe right.
I guess the sleepy-time cocktail I gave him last night was no different. I screwed that up, too, and I’m paying the price once again, albeit not as the victim this time.
I’ve been taking the drive nice and slow, not wanting to risk an accident, or, perhaps worse, a cop pulling me over.
Should I have called the police last night, when I first noticed Will wasn’t breathing? How could I, when he was one of their own?
Almost exactly two years ago to the day, that first time Will hit me after what should have been a fun night at the neighbors’ house, I called 9-1-1. I didn’t know what else to do—I’d never seen that side of him, and it was terrifying. This man who promised to love and cherish me in front of all of our family and friends had turned into a stranger before my very eyes as I brushed my teeth, thinking the evening had been successful.
I actually smiled at him in the mirror before it happened. “So, they’re pretty cool, right? Alex and Jed? I know you were nervous that they’d be weird or something, but she’s so smart! And kind of funny! And they’re both into running, so maybe we could get back into that and do a 5K with them?”
The truth was that Will had put on some weight after college, and I knew he wasn’t happy about it based on his huffing and puffing when he said he needed some new pants, but I never would’ve brought it up. I’d put on a few pounds, too. We weren’t kids anymore, and we could benefit from being more active.
“We won’t be socializing with them again. They’re not our kind of people.” His voice cold and formal, Will didn’t turn his head to look at me, but his dark eyes found mine in our reflections.
“What are you talking about? You acted like you had a great time! And they’re awesome! What do you mean?”
“Are you fucking serious, Shay? You told those virtual strangers that I had to get back in shape, like I’m some fat asshole.”
I’d only had a single glass of chardonnay, but my brain struggled to comprehend Will’s words. I spat my toothpaste into the sink and faced him. “Will, I said we needed to get back into shape. They’re, like, super fit, and I thought it might be fun. We used to run in college together, remember? We used to do a lot of things.”
Despite the lack of central air in our Victorian house on the steamy August night, a chill ran down my spine as a montage of “things we no longer did” rushed through me. We no longer ate waffles in bed on Saturday mornings, watched cheesy rom coms, or put 1,000-piece jigsaw puzzles together. When had things changed so much?
Had Will really changed so much since we got married?
The answer hit me like a punch in the face since it was a punch in the face.
After I peeled myself off the tiled bathroom floor, I ran from him, all the way down to the basement to barricade myself in the storage area. Thank goodness my pajama shorts had pockets and that I’d placed my cell phone inside.
Not that it mattered. The cop who responded to my call had attended the police academy at the same time as Will. He’d even come to our wedding. From behind the perceived safety of the thick door, I heard Will claim I’d had too much to drink, and that we’d had a dumb fight since he said our neighbor was pretty.
Steve, the cop, didn’t even speak with me. I heard his low chuckle as I slid down onto the cold, concrete floor, defeated.
There was no help for me there.
Not then, and not now.
166 miles equals six full marathons plus an almost nine-mile run. Since I had recently run a full marathon, my very first since I had to bow out of an earlier one after another Will-related injury, I tried to trick myself into thinking it was better to drive that distance than to run it. Every 26.2 miles, I imagined another marathon accomplished. This provided minimal comfort, but it helped occupy my mind on something productive.
Even though Will didn’t want us socializing, I had started running with Alex a few times a week. As Will’s demons grew, I trained my body to run farther and farther. After a few successful half marathons, we kept going.
But running won’t save me now. I can’t get rid of Will’s body by carrying it. I need to drive.
My palms sweating, heart racing, I picture my car spinning out of control. I repeat Hail Marys in my head and pray for my safety.
I’ve been doing that a lot lately, which is why I decided to leave Will in the first place. I knew he’d never let me go, so my plan was to disappear while he was knocked out. I’d been holing cash away for months and had reserved the rental under a false identity, hoping to use it as my home base until I figured out next steps.
But with Will in his condition, he’ll be the one staying at the cabin. Well, near it, anyway. I’ll get to keep my life, my career, my friends, everything I thought I’d have to leave behind. A smile curls on my lips even though there’s so much left to figure out, the main problem being what I’ll say has happened to Will.
Maybe the pain from my recent beating messed up my math skills as I calculated the dose to give him. What’s done is done, though. There’s no turning back.
I finally exit the tunnel, expecting the relief to wash over me. Instead, it’s like I’m floating outside of my body, looking down from an aerial view as my car keeps driving straight instead of curving with the road. I see my little red Honda driving right off the cliff, into the abyss, unable to stop. Focusing on bringing myself back to my body, I adjust my hands on the wheel, staying the course.
I need to. I must dispose of this evil, dead weight, and make my way back home.
Only 70 miles to go. Only one more hour until I can walk on my own two legs. This is temporary. I can do it.
And when I get there, I’ll dig a hole and bury my bastard of a husband in an unmarked grave in the massive woods, praying like hell that I’ll get away with it.
Rosette Maleficarum 