I smooth out my brain on paper, but it’s all too jumbled still, crinkled and messy like the swirling I see when I shut my eyes. I can’t unfold what I just saw, and the blood is smeared across the page. I close my eyes and fall. I open them. I try, try to remove the creases, but now my fingers fall on her gaze. And I can’t help her, and it’s so crumpled, and the blood stains, permanent and unforgiving.

I can’t unfold my heart. I can’t dream of that yet. It’s knotted in my chest and so churned it might be liquid now. But my brain – maybe I can smooth my brain.

I see her gaze now, but now it pleads no longer. Now it’s empty. I smother my fists across the page, but can’t erase. I shut my eyes and fall. I open them. I’m lost, exhausted, but I know if I can only remember. My fingers desperately seek to smooth the page as my will probes my mind, urgently, for answers.

And now it’s there, in the corner. I smooth out the fastened grip that holds me still, and I can’t help her because this tragically strong grip holds me still, and I foresee the blood. Now my fingers find the tears in the creases. And they unfold all my strength fighting, fighting this grip. I think I unfolded some of my heart just now.

My hand races across the ever smoother page and I stare desperately through teary windows. Now I see her pleading gaze and now black. I walk out easily, so easily, but she is still there. I fall. I open them. Now I discover light again, red light. And the blur noise, the noise that blurs and blurs, and was there anyone else with you in the car. I fall.

I smooth again. My arm has blood and it drips and sticks to the paper too. But then she drifts off into their red lights and that grip holds me too tight so all I see is her gaze empty now, and my hands smear the blood across the page, the napkin, your mother is here to see you now.