The Carpet.

He drove as fast as he could. He didn't dare to take his right foot off the accelerator. The car was already in the highest gear, so his left foot was jobless. And it was shaking bad. He hoped the speed would calm him down. It didn't, yet.
They say that right before you die, you get flashbacks of the most important moments of your life.
He was scared, now. He couldn't see beyond the windshield, because of the uncontrolled things that just flashed before his eyes, the uncontrolled voice kept deafening him. He couldn't be on the road, he had to go home fast, he needed to sleep, it was the only medicine he had ever trusted. He jabbed his leg down on the accelerator. Still, nothing blurred enough.
She was never important, he had known that, always. So, her face can't be a death knell.
She was never important enough.
She was just the carpet.
She wasn't even related to his life, to what he did, to what he thought.
She was just his carpet.
To be trampled upon, sat upon, and slept on, sometimes. She wasn't anything more.
He would always have other women to hold his hands.
He would always have other friends to listen to his poetry.
He would always have other men to be with him through thick and thin.
She was just his carpet.
But then he saw her with him at the party, that he didn't know she was invited to. He had taken his usual escort, and entered in his usual grandeur. And then, he had seen her. And his feet had disobeyed him, his hands had disobeyed his years of training. He freed himself from the girl's grasp, and rushed out to the car.
He had to sleep.
He pressed the clutch and the brake together.
He opened the door and slowly, climbed out. He could see the river beneath the bridge. He stood there, imaging how cold the water must be. He tried thinking of the fishes. Fishes were known for their infidelity, he thought, and smirked. He tried to grasp it, was he so, or was he not. Was she so, or was she not?
His cell screeched out loud "You have an SMS!"
He didn't bother to look at it.
He walked back to his car, and started the engine. His cell cried out again.
Irritated, he took it out, to switch it off.
It was his escort-girl calling. He let it ring, till the call ended. Then he saw the SMS.
"Come to the hospital. She cut her hand, she might not survive. Come ASAP."
He didn't know what to think next. He kept staring at the words, sitting there in the car, as the late-night trucks swerved around him, and passed away.
Now the flashback theory made sense, he thought.
His legs had stopped shaking.
He was her carpet too.