Grand Finale (oh deer).

Grand Finale.

"Hell of a way to end your weekend," remarked the trucker as the wrecker's bed slid towards my car. I looked at him; the glaring lights of the tow truck lit up the pitch-black darkness and illuminated tiny flakes of snow swirling towards us.

I agreed with him, a dry laugh working its way out of my mouth. "Yeah, I know. The Grand Finale." I gazed at the bits of drying animal flesh pasted onto the hood and side of my car; the smashed hood, the puddle of fluid under the car's body. I'd always hoped that if I ever were to hit a deer, I'd hit it hard enough to kill it; the memory of the deer appearing in front of me, then the massive thud, the sight of pieces of animal flying across and over my car, landing far away in the ditch, assured me that there was no chance it could be alive.

I swallowed hard, trying not to connect the delicate beauty of the animal with the horror of the scene in front of me. My neck ached and my pulse thudded in my head. It had taken forty minutes for the police and wrecker to get to the scene; forty minutes in which I shook and listened to the hissing of the radiator, trying to contact someone to help me. I had pulled out my phone and dialed 911, and the phone, even though on silent, played music as I hit "send," a sweet chime that assured me that help would be on the way.