gas station

i met myself at a gas station.    it was just past two
in the morning and the air tasted different then.    at
just past two.    like lightning and diesel.    the
bright yellow of the gas station logo reflected in a
puddle by the sidewalk.    i couldn’t stop looking at
it.    i asked me why they were here.

“You ask that a lot. Why.”

their voice didn’t sound right.    like they didn’t feel
anything.    like they were a computer generated
copy.    the yellow light flickered.    i figured it was
a good question to ask.    it usually was.    good to
know, i mean.    good to ask why.    i said as much.    

“You talk a lot. You didn’t use to.”

sometimes things change.    sometimes they don’t.
this was one of those things that change.

“You changed too much.”

i know.
i know.
i said i know.

the electric hum and chirping of crickets was all i
could hear.    i clicked the pen in my pocket.    i
watched the puddle ripple.    i took a breath.
it’s a kind of murder, some say, when you change too much.

“It is.”

how would i know.    i’m not a murderer.    i clicked
the pen in my pocket.

“I’m not. But you are.”

is it still murder, i asked, if it was in defense.    can i
plead innocent.    i needed to change.    i needed to
become someone new.    i needed to survive.    the
yellow light flickered.

“But what about me.”

it’s for you, too.

“Is it really. Then why am I here. Why didn’t I survive.”

i don’t know.
i don’t know.
i said i don’t know.

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Asher Astrum is a junior at SOU in the Creative Writing and Music departments. They also write under the names A.J. Alastairs and Apollo Asteri.