I Caught Her Cheating and Lost My Head

Rain slammed against the windshield like buckshot. The wipers slapped in vain, simultaneously creating bands of smeared grime and the torrents that reduce them into a jigsaw of brake-lights, concrete, and ashen sky. Still angered by the thought of my wife with that Neanderthal, I was unconcerned with—perhaps incapable of—focusing on the dawdling, incompetent drivers around me. Stopping, and going, and slowing, and accelerating. The erratic, herky-jerky motion of the imbeciles served only to heighten my frustration. I cut the wheel left and right, leapfrogging the other vehicles on the freeway at a preposterous speed for the hazardous conditions. My mind was screaming. My hands vice-gripped ten and two. When Dave Matthews belted out "PICK ME UP LOVE!" from the phone lying on the passenger seat it caught me off guard. I looked down at it just before the semitrailer pulled in front of my car.      
     
Although the next instant lumbered obnoxiously, I never saw the Mansfield bar break away under the force of my front end.  I never saw the taillights come through the windshield. I did feel a violent stinging pain on my cheek and left jaw, and a lateral tearing sensation in my neck. But none of it compared to the dread I felt when I saw the phone and the passenger seat were moving in a counter clockwise whorl along with the rest of the interstate...and the perfect terror of seeing above me, my headless corpse, still clutching the steering wheel, getting farther and farther away.