Inferno

six | the derail

The rumbling thunder and lightning wasn't a false alarm, as many might have thought. It was, instead, a clear warning written across the sky in white streaks, followed by pouring rain.

Battling through obstructive splashes of puddle water and the onslaught from above, Chase maintains a steady speed, his specs back on as the windshield glass turns into a watery blur of colours every few seconds. I had offered to drive, but he's not comfortable with anyone else handling Fergie in such sensitive weather, even though he's tired and grumpy and an unexpected honk away from ramming into a tree.

"Chase, please let me drive, I promise I won't manhandle your car, or let us tragically die at 23. So it's a win-win situation for both of us." I receive no response from him, and that's enough for me to seal my fate to chance and gods, because the heavy showers are only getting heavier by the second.

Anxiety bites at me, my fingers curling into a tight fist, and sweat making my palms clammy. The vividness of my nightmare earlier is playing itself right now, with slight shocks and skids on the sludge coming on in regularity. "We should stop."

He glances my way this time around, the fear and trauma embedded in my voice apparent to him. He lets out a shaky sigh before swiftly turning onto our left and halting by what looks like a  broken fence from inside the car.

"Should we go out and check what's on the other side? Maybe we can wait in there until there's some relief from the rains," Chase suggests, craning his neck up, but failing to see anything past the distortion created by the multitude of water streams running down the windshield and window glass.

"I suppose it wouldn't do any harm to look." A certain curiosity rouses within me, inspite of seethed wood and reeds of overgrown grass being the fancy cover of the place inside.

Sprinting for our lives and thousands of dollars worth of hand bags, we are able to get under a make shift roof of hay and a stitched together print cloth. There's no one around in miles, and the farm's maintenance is little to zero, so we're assured we aren't breaking and entering into someone's property. "The weather's turning worse," I step closer to the edge, sharp droplets of water flicking at me and a puddle collecting by my doc martens.

When I turn back, the earlier load of hay sitting idle is found to have produced a temporary chair like arrangement, courtesy Chase Cameron. "I'd pull out your seat for you, but there's a chance it might collapse into a mound."

"I'm good." I feel the earlier tense lines on my face fade away and a smile come through. I'm fairly impressed at his skills and, not that I'd admit, but in awe of his want to make the best out of the worst. Something I wish I'd more of.

Side by side, feet occasionally hitting each other's, we stay observant of the roaring thunder and rains. A series of thoughts continues to run through my mind, questions of if and what prevalent as I think about Spain. However, amongst the bunch, there's this one question, a little unsettling at that, but  I ponder over it anyway. What'd someone like Chase be thinking?

The ask remains prisoned to my mind; somewhat because it's rather personal, and a lot because it involves me shedding my guard and laying everything out as is. So I settle for the next best option available. "You've got some history in Spain, if I'm not wrong?"

His swinging feet come to an abrupt halt, regret slowly climbing up my nerves as my face flushes red. "History is too simple of a word. Doesn't even begin to describe it." A light chuckle follows his words, putting me to ease. "I was pursuing my graduation over there, and those years weren't as forgettable as I wished they were. Like a drunken night full of embarrassment that's stuck to your memory."

I'm not one to corroborate, but the metaphor's come alive in front of me a bunch too many times. "At least,  you've lived a wild life. Done more things than pushing deadlines at a local newspaper firm."