Dreaming and driving

I have always been afraid of hitting someone while driving.

Tonight, I was reminded of my fears as I was flying down Cottonwood Drive, returning from a delivery. I had the morbid thought of a child darting out in front of me from behind a tree, and me not being able to stop, and the child dying a gruesome death at the hand of my Escort. It’s a horrifying image, I know. I pictured myself screeching to a halt, smelling the burning rubber of the tires on the pavement, and then running from my vehicle as the father of the deceased happened upon the scene and screamed in agony as he found his firstborn dead in the street. We would bravely keep the mother from witnessing the horrifically gory scene. No need for her to see this. The father would scream at me, and I would tell myself I wasn’t going to jail because it wasn’t my fault. Manslaughter, at the very worst. Was I speeding? Nevermind the legal consequences. I would have ended a life. I would be forced to cope with having killed someone, forever indebted to the family. I would be apologetic and I would bring them casseroles as peace offerings, only to have them rejected when the surviving kin saw that it was I who rang their doorbell, the one who stole their child, and they would slam the door in my face.

Still behind the wheel, still driving back to the store, I snapped out of the awful daydream and noticed my speed was naturally, fittingly much lower. I had actually just thought all of those things.

It was such a strange thing to think… I had never hit anything or anyone before. Would I actually ever hit someone? Was this some kind of omen? What if I hit someone this very night? How would I deal with it? It would all be too weird.

Not twenty seconds after I experienced this strange, mental episode, I came upon a car stopped in the left lane of traffic, as though it was waiting to turn left. Just as I was about to pass them on the right, two figures on four legs trotted in front of my headlights, their tags glinting, and I knew the car had not stopped to turn. Two dogs – a big German Shepherd and a slightly smaller shorthair - had escaped their home and run into the street, and the other car had stopped for them. Mine did not. I slammed my breaks and missed the German Shepherd on the right side. My tires were skidding, screeching, the whole car jolting as it collided with the curb, and the smaller dog disappeared beneath me. I didn’t use the clutch, and my engine shut off as I halted. I could smell the burning rubber through my open windows.

Two pedestrians looked on in horror as I jumped out of my car, and they were already asking if I had a phone. Apparently, the owners weren’t around. I was fully expecting to see a skidmark, a trail of guts and fur from what had once been a dog. But where my tires had left their mark, there was no sign of carnage. I looked around – left, right, in front of and behind my car. Nothing.

A few yards down the road, the German Shepherd was trotting on as though nothing had happened, having successfully crossed Cottonwood, oblivious to the fright and plight of me and the other onlookers. Behind him, limping but keeping up on three legs, was the short-haired dog, in full non-skidmark form. I had only clipped his leg, and he was having little trouble leaving the scene of the crime. He was getting on alright, and though I wanted to track him down and find his owners, I was on the clock. I told two of the on-lookers that, if they caught up with the dogs and somehow found their owners, I’d be at the store all night.

This was all such a very strange episode. I had the vivid daydream of hitting a child, and indeed had suspected it could have been an omen, not half a minute before I nearly sent a dog to pet heaven.

I’m really not sure what to make of all this. I hope the dog is alright, and I hope it wasn’t yours.