JUNKYARD DREAMING

ROTTEN THINGS IN GETAWAY CARS - [ #JUL2016 ]

a/n: this is a contest entry for thefictionaward's monthly competition! the prompt was drive, and to incorporate an adventure theme to it. it was super fun to write all in one go at like 12 AM in the morning hahaha this is my take :) i hope you guys enjoy rotten things in getaway cars!

wc: 1426

▼ ▼ ▼

SHE SMILES SOFTLY TO HERSELF and turns up the knob of the radio to her dinky Camry — it's an old thing, almost as old as herself. She's just grateful it still works despite the way it heaves and groans and sputters wherever she goes.

It's a good song, something peppy and poppy and completely overplayed. The broad grin stretches wider across her face as the singer croons something about having the time of their life. She can relate.

The blood is still pumping loudly in her ears, adrenaline coursing through her veins as she remembers slick slick skin sliding against each other in an almost wild ritual, shaking breaths mingling in the air, a gritty sort of feeling rising up in her bones as soon as the deed was done.

She grips the wheel tighter, drunk on the memory, relieving the moment over and over again, reveling in the wonderful way it made her feel.

Her fingertips against his flesh, bruising delicate and soft, like overripe fruit from the forbidden garden.

A delicacy of the undeniably human kind.

She shudders in a breath, chances a look in the mirror, frowning as she recognizes a car that's been following her for the past few turns now.

Impatiently tapping her fingers, she looks at the red light and waits for it to turn green.

"C'mon," she wheedles to no one in particular, "turn."

It does, much to her delight, and with the enthusiasm of a freedom newly found, she steps on it. The squealing screech the car leaves behind strikes something in her, leaves her breathing hard with the feeling and yearning for just a little bit more.

Lights flicker in the distance, but she's too far gone to pay attention to them.

All she can see is him; him, with a face blessed by the gods themselves, intrinsically beautiful in the way gaunt shadows drew themselves upon the angular lines so prominently displayed, brown eyes so dark she could drown in them for days and weeks and years on end.

God, his hands. Rough, calloused things, strong and supple as they were long and thin.

She was kind of obsessed with them, with the way they clawed at her arms passionately — it was gratifying, she thinks, to see something so strong be reduced to a weak sort of thrashing panic.

And she liked those brown eyes best when they were staring back at her, dull and lifeless.

Looking back behind her, she sees that the car is still following her. It's followed by a gaggle of the same cars, black and white, all blinking the same kind of lights.

Is it some kind of party? It looks kind of fun, if she's being honest.

She dismisses it, choosing to focus back on him, to focus back on the magical moment: the way her fingers, slicked with a warm mahogany that seemed to endlessly flow from flesh unreal, felt the life drain out of his lungs; on the way he screamed but nothing came out but a gurgle because by then she had already sliced silver through the column of his throat.

Let her tell you something: he looked even better in death.

He looked peaceful, almost. Angelic, even with the red splashed all about him seeping into the ground oozing soaking spreading absolutely everywhere, she remembers with a sort of manic glee, watching as his mouth gape wide open to let out a scream that would forever fall to a silent crowd.