Written in response to the Death prompt. This piece was also inspired by a true story of a family friend, dramatized and injected with a bit of Gatsby-esque feelings that I had on the experience.

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I came to the new country with hope for a new life. But now, suspended an inch above the water, time stops, and I realize the new life has ended.

The first months were difficult for me. I came with my husband to a land of a garish culture and alien noise. The English that I had learned in school back at home sounded nothing like the street talk here. When I opened my lips to speak, corners of mouths turned upwards mockingly and bade me shut my lips back closed. When I came to my job in the small shop, the pale faces glared at me, and companionship was scarce. But here was the land where wallets swelled larger than the Mother Ocean and spirits rose higher than the Father Sun. If I tried hard enough, I knew, the new country would find a way for me to achieve greatness.

I drove on Route 1 when life sat me down and gave me lectures. Alone in my car, away from the natives, whose sideways glances made me uncomfortable, away from my husband, who ceaselessly begged to go home, and away from all people, I dwelled in my own thoughts, head turned sideways and gazing into the rainbows of sunset. The road was long and winding, but I had gone on it so often that its narrow turns no longer caused distress.

To my right was a precarious fall, the cliff stretching endlessly downwards to the beautiful ocean that crashed against the tall, forbidding rocks; beyond the waters, the sun illuminated the world, giving the sea and sky a deep red luster that was unique to this country. Bikers, huffing and puffing, were silhouetted against the sun as I passed them. Back in Shanghai, businessmen claimed their millions, but no amount of money could buy a blue sky. Here, the sights were free, yet I was often the only one driving along the route to see them.

This was my favorite part of the new country. Route 1 was my home when I had no home to go to – a dream of beauty and greatness that anyone could enjoy.

I was fired from my job only a couple weeks after I started, because of a small meltdown that occurred when a native spat in my face. It was my entire fault, but it could not be helped. My husband sat in stony silence, and we lived off his meager salary alone for a long time afterwards.

I drove on Route 1 that night and stared into the endless waves that called me to them. The soft hum of static from the radio drowned out the noises of the ocean and the gulls. Listening to static was a habit I developed back in the old country, when there was nothing but shouting, angry people both on the radio stations and outside the car. In the random buzzes of sound, in the random crashes of waves, there was solace. My head was turned completely to the sun; I drove mindlessly on and on. The rare bikers too, pedaled towards and away from me, faces twisted in concentration, but facing the sun nevertheless.

I screamed when the nightmare began. Biker and I connected, and he was flung up and into the sky when he had sped down a blind turn. As I swerved and braked, I saw his ragdoll body in my rearview mirror clear the road and fall straight down the gorge. I clamped my eyes shut and cranked up the volume of static, hoping to not hear the inevitable crack of his impact with the ocean. When I opened my eyes again after an eternity of silence, there was no trace of him to be found, save his bicycle-shaped indention on my vehicle. Sobbing, with my eyes glued to the road, I drove home.

I had killed a head of a big business as he was biking to relax. He was fresh off a major flop in a new product, scorned for an advertising campaign promotion a soulless, luxury lifestyle. I read his rags-to-riches story in the obituary and I ripped the newspaper to pieces. My husband bade me submit myself as the offender when news reports of a missing local celebrity blared on the television, lest I live my life in shame and guilt. I did the honorable thing and listened, then spent our remaining savings hiring a lawyer. But it was a losing battle from the very start. On and on, unfamiliar, unfriendly voices screamed racial slurs and death threats over the phone. My husband was attacked in the street and he lost his job for being associated with me. The new country was suddenly transformed from a rude and unwelcoming people to a murderous and hateful people.

His family was determined to empty me of everything I had.

My lawyer was futile, and I sold my house to pay dues. My husband and I sank deeper and deeper in debt incurred by the man’s family. I left my husband in mutual understanding that I had hurt him with my mistake and he did not deserve the punishment meant for me. I called my mother and she deemed me a failure, unable to make success even in the Land of Opportunity. Before I could reply to her, she had hung up, and I sat for a full minute listening to the long, terminal beep of the phone.

His family succeeded in their task.

And then, unable to stay here, unable to return home, without a husband or a home, I returned to Route 1. Steadfastly walking down the side of the highway, I was once again lost in the orange eye of the setting sun. I sat down on the side of the road, legs dangling off the cliffside, eyes dry and clear, waited for a moment, and then dove into the dream that I was never able to achieve.

An inch above the water, I realized that the vision of the dream was all the country gave to me. I was infatuated with it, but ultimately, it was the dream that severed my breath. The crashing waves I was never able to hear now sang to me a song of the countless hopeful men and women, including he who I killed, who had perished pursuing the same promise. And I looked back towards the beautiful rainbows of sunset and only then did I truly recognize the infinite distance between me and the beauty of the new country.