Seventy in the Dark — Sudden Impact
It wasn’t there… until it was.
It was around 2:30… maybe 3 in the morning.
No cars.
No lights.
No one.
Just me, the highway—
and whatever my headlights could reach
at high speed.
Right Down the Line playing low.
Just part of the drive.
I was driving.
Minding my business.
The road—
asphalt.
Black on black.
In appearance,
the dark and the road
were the same.
No edge.
No separation.
Just one surface.
—
And then—
boom.
One instant—nothing.
The next—
something there.
Right in front.
Not crossing.
Not running.
Up.
—
My eyes try to catch it—
can’t.
That split second—
everything’s off.
Like it doesn’t belong—
but it’s already there.
—
Clunk.
—
For a second,
I don’t even hear the music anymore.
I’m still driving.
Hands tight.
Not settled.
My mind racing—
trying to catch up.
What was that?
A person?
A deer?
No—
too small.
—
Then—
a shape.
Low.
Compact.
A raccoon.
—
That’s when it lands.
After the hit.
Not before.
—
For a moment—
I didn’t even know where I was.
Just the road again.
Flat.
Empty.
Like nothing happened.
—
When I got home,
I checked the front.
My tag—
the license plate—
dented.
Not scraped.
Not cracked.
Pressed in.
—
I’ve hit something before.
Years ago—Atlantic City.
An opossum.
Small. Quick.
This—
different.
Because it didn’t look
like something in the road.
It looked like the same black—
the dark, the road,
everything in it—
all one.
—
Later—
that’s when it settles in.
How little you see
at high speed.
How fast something can be there
when it wasn’t.
Out there, in that kind of dark—
there’s a blind spot.
You don’t know it
until you’re already past it.
—
At high speed—
it’s not there
until it is.
Raccoon lost.
