The Could-Have-Beens by Mason Yates

I’m well aware there are endless possibilities, limitless universes where people live rather than die, where situations work out rather than fall apart, where superb memories are made rather than never created, and where love blossoms rather than weakens.  I’m unsure how to reach these complex destinations, but I know they’re out there, situated somewhere on a higher dimension or hidden behind the veil we call reality.  They conceal all the could-have-beens, circumstances that might have occurred if given the opportunity but, of course, never came to fruition due to some seen or unseen event…

            —atrocious rain, plus the milky white headlights on the water, covers the faint lines in the road, the windshield bombarded so much so that nobody can see anything in the night.  He steers the car towards the side, but an impact—a purple pickup truck, he will soon find out—knocks his Nissan off the pavement.  The tires screech underneath the vehicle; a terrible scream follows.  An arm, his girlfriend’s, flings out in an attempt to grab him, but her body lifts and hurls out the w—

…that disrupted the timeline, and certain folks may call places like this Heaven or Hell.  I guess it just depends on the individual and what aspects of their lives are modified when they get there, for certain outcomes are best left untouched and are not always changed for the better.  The infinite potentials can sometimes be a hit or miss.  It varies on what new lifetime you stumble on.  However, if I could choose to go anywhere, I’d pick the universe in which the horrid car accident last September…

—wakes up several seconds later in the damp grass, his heart a malicious mallet down in his chest and head a rhythmic drumbeat throb.  Colors smear across his vision in a terrific fusion that hurts his eyes, but he searches for his girlfriend amongst the littered landscape, nonetheless.  He finds her several yards away.  He crawls to her.  She’s on her back, eyes wide open with blood in her blonde hair.  Her chest fails to rise and fall.  He understands, at once, she is no longer a—

…never happened.  I imagine it would be a better life, but who’s to know for sure?  There are reasons for everything, yet I cannot comprehend the divine motive for what transpired on that highway almost a year ago.  I still recall each detail as if it took place yesterday: the sharp shriek, the broken glass as it tinkled against the asphalt, the soaked terrain revealed by pale headlights in sporadic flickers, the orange flames amongst the wreckage, the heavy weight of her lifeless body, and so on.  Yeah, I do think life would be more enjoyable, more radiant, without that fateful drive through the rain-stricken countryside, and I can only lose myself in evocative daydreams that I…

            —grins in the midafternoon sunlight, while her golden hair catches in the summer breeze brought down by the distant mountains.  She sits relaxed in a metal chair on the restaurant’s cool outdoor patio, and her head nods to the music (an old jazz tune), which plays from mini speakers fixed to the wooden roof above.  There’s a wet beer bottle on the table in front of her, but both her hands stay in her lap.  Her freckled cheeks blush a crimson red, then she turns to view the hills—

…realize explore not actual events but fictitious ones that feel real, like false recollections seen through a narrow tunnel, the fabricated experiences so close yet so very far: the could-have-beens.  Perhaps these vibrant illusions materialized in a different future.  Regardless, each reverie seems like it occurred at one time or another, and every conjured fantasy always revolves around, well, her.  She slips into my mind often—all the time, in fact; daily.  Her ghost refuses to exit my thoughts, and to be honest, I’m quite…

            —hears the traffic rustle on the nearby interstate, but his focus on her consumes him so it is just a continuous, almost unregistered whisper in his ear.  She lies naked underneath him, both on a red picnic blanket amidst an overgrown field beside a deserted rest stop (one vehicle, theirs, in the lot a hundred yards east).  She crinkles her nose in pure ecstasy, and a quiet moan escapes her mouth as he thrusts his hips.  Her delicate hand caresses his smooth cheek.  He’s about an—

            …thankful she remains in them.  It’s common for loved one’s faces to fade from memory, but her features, I suspect, will endure the decades ahead.  I recognize this because the longer she is gone, the more my love deepens.  The pain intensifies as the months pass.  Most might hate the incredible burden.  I, on the other hand, carry it proud, my chin high and eyes toward the goal: an eternal afterlife she and I share together, for it’s God’s perpetual paradise that supports my sanity.  Heaven, as I mentioned earlier, is what some may call the location the could-have-beens reside…

            —and the sailboat floats on the crystal-clear water without a hitch, the blue sky cloudless except for a few puffy ones on the horizon.  He uses the pretty weather to his advantage with nice strokes through the calm ocean, and every once in a while, he peeks at her on the wooden deck, a strawberry daiquiri in her gentle grasp.  She smiles whenever she intercepts his serene gazes.  At once, her teeth flash in the sunshine.  Her skin is bright.  He sees himself in her sunglasses and—

…in.  I also believe the enlightened plane of existence, the spiritual realm, is where those constant hallucinations truly take place.  I bet there’s an unlimited source of activities for her and I to complete, countless sequences that depict random romantic moments neither of us have been able to process yet.  I picture numerous scenes in formation, set after set, arranged in whatever…

—motorcycle engine hums and vibrates the seat, then crackles as the bike drifts around a bend in the smooth road, the tires on clouds not concrete.  He inhales the rich scent of cornfields and far bonfires, notices the orange leaves in the ditches off to the side.  The crisp air invites him to explore a bottomless nostalgia for his childhood, but he, instead, concentrates on her embrace and warmth.  Her freckled arms hold him tight, and her hot breath tickles his ear.  Her belly is—        

            …order possible, no particular method behind it, just an irregular structure that shows our finest and fondest scenarios: dinner dates at fancy cafés, deep conversations beside a beach in the Bahamas, falling asleep together with The Andy Griffith Show on the TV, happy autumn nights…

            —newlywed pair step outside the miniature white chapel lost in some liminal desert.  The church bells toll in unison, thunderous clangs that echo across the flat and sandy land, and there are relatives who throw rice in the air.  He chuckles at the cheers and hollers and applause.  The laughter is beyond contagious, and before he knows it, he helps his wife into a cliché convertible, cans strung up behind it with a sign that reads JUST MARRIED in bold letters.  His wife has a—      

            …somewhere in a midwestern town, a kiss beneath a firework-illuminated sky, etc.  Sure, I suppose it’s reasonable to assume I’m absurd or too optimistic, but if it helps me through this…

            —faint radio a little further down the stream plays an Eagles song called “Peaceful Easy Feeling” for the locals, the rock and roll classic somehow still able to be heard despite the noise.  He sits on a flat rock in the sunlight, his skin a little red but not quite on fire, and grins at his girl as she tumbles down the natural water slide, a bright smile on her face despite the rough parts in the current.  Her childlike laughter afterwards is a special delight, warms his heart and makes—    

            …fucked-up period in my life, then what’s wrong with ruminating the could-have-beens?    

Mason Yates 

Image: Pixabay.com – an image of many worlds floating in the void.