Free Twisted by Andrew E. Kaufman Page A

forehead, then step softly toward the door.
    Before leaving, I steal one last look at Jake, still parked there, still with that desolate, edgy, ominous expression.

17
    I spend most of my night riding the Insomniac Express, bouncing between brief periods of turbulent sleep and wakeful, agitated tossing and turning. My head and ribs take their shots at keeping the action going.
    With a new sun now on the rise, I look at Jenna beside me in restful slumber, kiss her cheek, and she blearily opens her eyes.
    “Come closer,” she says with her sleepy little smile, softly brushing a hand across my cheek.
    I do, and she returns a sleepy little kiss.
    “Feeling any better?” she asks.
    “Some.” I force a comforting grin.
    She doesn’t say anything, but I know the look. My wife is worried. For reassurance, I kiss her again, then drag my aching body from bed to shower, hoping the warm water will deliver some relief.
    Unfortunately, the payoff is marginal at best. I’m a bit more awake, but that just makes everything hurt harder.
    I dry off, then check my injury in the mirror. The forehead swelling has gone down, but . . .
    Something doesn’t look right.
    I move in closer, study myself, then discover the problem. My hair looks odd and unfamiliar. Different, but I have no idea how. Still, looking into the mirror is making me terribly uncomfortable.
    I try to concentrate on brushing my teeth but can’t let the uneasiness go. I keep glancing up, and the more I see myself, the more on edge I feel. Finally, I can’t stand it anymore. I turn on the faucet, throw my hands under the water, then run my fingers across my scalp. I grab a comb and restyle, but the result ends up exactly the same.
    My hair is still wrong.
    “Honey, you’ll be late,” Jenna calls from the bedroom.
    I look at the clock and realize she’s right.
    Another glance in the mirror only fuels more frustration, so I reach for the comb, move my part to the other side, and find a small measure of respite from my bad hair day.
    Strange things are happening.
    And they’re scaring the hell out of me.

18
    There’s something so very peculiar about revisiting the scene of an accident, especially your own. It’s knowing that, in a heartbeat, you’ve had a glimpse at just how precious and fragile life can be, how quickly it can be taken away. Those lingering emotional remnants often speak louder than any skid marks or jagged, twisted metal ever could. The physical traces can be washed away, but a cerebral imprint never leaves, time only making it that much more powerful.
    I feel all of this, and maybe more things I can’t even begin to describe, as I approach the tree on my drive toward work. Though daybreak has come, it feels like darkness still surrounds the tree, just a few bright slivers of sunlight shafting through a bruised and battered sky, striking the branches like fiery daggers.
    As my car reaches a point where the trunk sits closest to the road, I feel more agitated. Now the tree has taken on a more threatening aura, standing tall and firm as if making a bold statement of power. I study its immense branches, like giant, mythical arms that want to reach out and pull me into a swirling vortex of pernicious evil.
    Just as we cross paths, I see it flaunting its bare wound like some sinful badge of honor. I push hard on the gas pedal, and my car surges forward, picking up speed.
    Not fast enough.
    Because I don’t like that tree. Don’t like it one goddamned bit.

19
    I reach for the door handle at Loveland, and my ribs deliver a fe rocious objection. Then my head joins in with ruthless and grinding pain. I grimace, assuring myself that this is to be expected, that neither are signs of anything serious. So far, everything around me looks normal, but I remain watchful for any weird sights or sounds.
    When I step into the building, it’s like I’ve flipped a switch in my mind, and thoughts of Donny Ray shift to the forefront.
    Have a safe night,