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    Christian Rose

    18. Push Through Me

    By Christian Rose

    My reflection’s out there on the other side of this tinted floor-to-ceiling hotel window, hovering five stories above the beach and staring back at me from a place in the night where the sea and sky would meet if I could see through this impassively dark and reflective tint but I can’t, I just know the horizon’s out there in the night like I know Dan and Pat are still out there in some emergency room, and it’s my fault because I’m the one who convinced them to drive twelve hours south to Myrtle Beach for spring break in the first place.

    I’m pacing, panicking, kicking the face of some televangelist who’s preaching on the TV with the sound off but the screen doesn’t break, the televangelist just keeps ranting, red-faced, pointing a finger, spittle leaping from his lips, beneath a banner that says Let Yourself Be Saved.

    I limp over to the dresser and drag it against the hotel room door, barricading it, then call down to the front desk for the hospital’s phone number but the woman at the hospital won’t tell me anything and when I try to set the phone down it slips from my hand, covered in blood.

    I peel the sopping Polo shirt from my right hand and glance at the deep cuts across my palm. The sharp, screeching pain is duller now, throbbing like a heartbeat in my hand. . . . Read More.

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