Every story begins at the end. Mine is told posthumously. I am not a ghost and I am definitely not an angel. I do not even believe in the hereafter. Still, I assure you, I am speaking from beyond the grave. I am as close to death as any man might possibly come and still be able to give a fair account of the events that led me here.

Blood seeps trough a gash in my head. A greater concern is the thick vomitous blood that keeps spewing from my mouth. It accumulates in my throat with a gurgling sound until a peristaltic action ejects it forcibly, the result of internal injuries, I suppose.

I must look gruesome, limbs twisted, convulsively twitching, caked in a mixture of blood and dirt. This was confirmed by the hysterical screams of a Good Samaritan lady who drove up a few minutes ago. Her wailing woke me out of darkness. I should thank her; her screams resurrected my conscious mind so that I could tell you this story.

When I drove off the embankment, time did seem to slow down. I think the Oldsmobile took to the air before careening headlong into the California desert. As the vehicle pitched forward I was catapulted through the open top. I landed ahead of the car and remain in the same spot, unable to move. The Olds landed on end, the hood crumpled and finally its bulk caused it to fall over in a cloud of dust. The engine ceased to roar and the tires spun more and more slowly. I lay paralyzed, a picture of mangled steel fixed in my sight. The apparent slowing of time might be attributed to a heightened sense of awareness. I remember every detail of the accident. However, contrary to popular belief, I did not see my whole life flash before my eyes.

I must settle for the events of the last two weeks. The revelations which came to me during that time occupied my mind when I lost control of the vehicle. A source of rage, they are also the reason I was speeding east on I-8 towards Calexico. Ironic that everything should end where it began.