No Absolutes

Part One

There are very few things that he finds exciting anymore. Lately the sky has been a consistently hazy cloud from dusk 'til dawn. The weather is always a few degrees shy of being warm or cool enough to be pleasant, and there has been a scratch that persistently refuses to be scratched somewhere that he just can't quite reach.

However, today is decidedly different. Today has successfully excited Louis. The sky is clear for the first time in months (he might be exaggerating, but no matter), the weather is perfect, and the hippo handled back scratcher that he received as a white elephant gift days ago is perfect for scratching all of his itches. Most importantly though is the set of keys that he's twirling around his index finger; the set of keys that he never thought would actually be in his possession. Those keys are going to ignite the engine to the new silver car with the black stripe racing across its hood and they are going to cross the first thing off his list.

Now, he's not dying. That's not what his list is for, but instead it's for making sure that this new year is as successful and positivity-centered as possible. His previous years pre-list have been rather the opposite, so the list should prove, and has so far, to be an improvement to his overall existence. It's only January 1st, but he's hopeful. The fact that his list has gifted him this beautiful 1972 Chevrolet Chevelle SS that he had to have shipped across the pond with the blessing of his new year's bonus only serves to bolster his point; the point he's been making to himself and no one else.

At this moment, he could vomit a rainbow if he really wanted to, but there's a fresh cup of tea with his name on it waiting across town and despite the joyous event that is receiving this beautiful work of American steel, he does have to actually get to work at some point today. So, he climbs into the front seat, inhales the sweet scent of personal victory (and maybe a little pride), and the smell of clean, ebony leather before starting the engine. He runs his fingers over the steering wheel and smiles a little wider.

"Happy days," he hums as he pats at the gearshift and pulls it into drive. "Fucking happy days, man."

With the windows down, he weaves in and out of traffic. Music is blasting probably a little too loudly to be considered anything but obnoxious from his speakers, Louis may be singing at the top of his longs along with the cassette – it's a classic car, there's no way in hell he's ruining it by changing the stereo out for the sake of bluetooth connectivity – and he's typing a text out to Eleanor, the office secretary.

Crossing off number four, right now. Keep my desk warm for me pumpkin. I'll be there in ju – and his phone is flying out of his hand.

It doesn't process at first. He doesn't see it. He doesn't feel his foot slamming down on the brake. He does hear it though; he hears it over the screeching of the song that currently plays. He hears the screaming of his new brakes, hears something sliding up the hood of his car, and hears the distinct cracking of his windshield. He doesn't understand. His fingers are wrapped in a white knuckled grip around his steering wheel. His stare is focused on the speedometer arrow that has fallen back to zero and the full fuel gauge.

Searing panic spreads through Louis' lungs and he heaves as the dots begin to connect. He was texting. He took his eyes off the road for three seconds at most, right? He probably just hit a cone or something. "Just a cone," he repeats aloud to himself. He can't look away from his dashboard. He doesn't move from his seat. The cassette falls into silence as it waits for Louis to flip it over to the B side.

"Someone's been hit!"

A tremore settles deep into Louis' bones. There had been someone in the road. There had been someone in the road and Louis just hit that someone with his car.