The Tragedy

The second the Mustang died, so did Carl. He just gave up the ghost and passed away, his last breath wheezing from his lips as the engine growled and clanked and shuddered to a stop. I let the car drift along the deserted highway as I stared into the rear view mirror, waiting for the death rattle. I'd always heard that when you died, there would be a death rattle, a last gasp at life. I didn't hear anything though, and once I realized it I hit the brakes and the grand old car slowed to a stop. I put it in park and got out, not daring to look back at the old man. as I walked away, I let my hand trail along the smooth contours of the Mustang, the enameled surface warm against my fingertips. I kept walking up the highway, leaving the car and my friend in the behind. I didn't look back. There was no point.