The tape plays.
I’m in the back of a car. The seats are shiny red vinyl, and the rubbery new car scent still hangs thick in the air. A couple sits in the front, a boy too young for a beard, and a girl with glossy hair smoothing on peach lipstick. She’s crying. The boy brushes long fingers against her cheek.
“It’s what she would’ve wanted,” he murmurs.
The tape plays.
She’s driving now and singing along, the song an echo of a hundred Sundays I sang with her. The car smells less like new and more like stale French fries and her rose perfume. The boy sits in the passenger seat, hand resting on her knee. A ring that was once mine pinches her finger. The boy smiles.
“It’s what she would’ve wanted.”
It never fit me right either.
The tape plays.
The vinyl seats are cracking now. Receipts and cigarettes litter the floorboard. The man is driving. His turns are as violent as the bruises that bloom up the woman’s arms.
“It’s what she would’ve wanted,” he snarls.
The tape plays.
The woman stands by me as rain washes away the stench of gasoline and alcohol. The only light comes from the flames licking up the side of the crumpled car, gradually consuming the broken tree it hit. I draw my sister into my side and kiss the bruise on her temple.
“I never wanted this,” I whisper.
I hold her as the tape plays for the last time, the song eaten by fire