This is where they bring the cars. The ones from accidents. The ones from crime scenes. The ones with holes in the windshield where a head crashed through. The ones where little bits of blood and bone, sometimes teeth can be picked out of the carpet. Shooting victims. It’s hard to tell the difference in the aftermath. Blood looks the same regardless of how it got there.

The cars stand like twisted metal skeletons. Proud. Broken headlights. Their faces punched in. Like a prizefighter with a trophy hoisted over his head and showing off his sweaty black eye after a gig. No regard for the other fighter laying on the floor.

Their mirrors sparkle under the sun. Shattered and cracked but somehow managed to keep themselves together.

A sullen seat belt gone unused. Mud Flaps that say, “Back Off!” A child safety seat. A cherry and a set of black fuzzy dice hang from the mirror. Liquor bottles and spilled ashtrays. Bullet holes with numbers next to them.

Walking through the corridor of twisted metal. A graveyard of fiberglass and aluminum shells. They wait patiently for the crane to lift them up, high above the others, and compress them into small, usable cubes to be melted down. Like souls waiting to be recycled they wait for their turn to forget their previous incarnations.