We've all heard and devoured the classic trope involving the shenanigans of a jock, a princess, a nerd, and a criminal. Although who knows of the trouble capable of ensuing when The Breakfast Club isn't PG-13 anymore?
That's the 2007 freshman batch...
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Halting at the crossroads resembles my life more than I would want it to. I guess it doesn't take a lot to guess that the enormous load of all the information and confessions is now beginning to reel up my spine.
My day started off by witnessing a bloodbath, leading up to interrogating my boyfriend at my own precinct where he decided to admit to a plausible murder after eight years of deceit. My chance encounter with Jackson Trevor didn't turn out to be the strong lead of evidence I had hoped for, and now my sole string of hope dangles on a woman who might not even exist.
Monica Aldrin.
I am not really used to this, of things not being in my control. Everything is slipping away from me, and all I am doing is standing by the bay and watching as it happens. And of course, the sole exception to this chaos being the green light, permitting me to move past the thatches congesting the prime hour traffic.
Sighing, I push the gear, while my grip on the steering wheel involuntarily strengthens; the aspirin washing off of my distressed state and making me aware of the figurative pistol pointing at my head. I feel my palms turning clammy and my breath turning unsteady as I cross the now darkened sign of the lounge we visited. I try to shake the feeling, but it only worsens with each passing second.
My vision soon turns hazy, and it feels I am speeding past a whiz of colours while trying to keep my eyelids open. However, I assume I fail in doing so when it all turns black.
As I struggle to get past the murk, my head throbs with pain and my skull shakes like a jar full of candy. Fluttering my eyelids open, I realise I am no longer moving. Once I get a grip on the situation, I stumble my way out of my car, smoke colouring the damp air around an intense black. It takes longer for me to assess what's in front, and when I do, spot a red Mercedes on the impact side of my crash, whizzed sideways it seems, its driver side window glass looking like a spider web that'd spill glass if poked.
The door appears punched and thrashed hollow, and even though my car isn't in a very good shape either, I don't worry much about it. Past the spiralling smoke still coming from beneath the dented steel, but the huddle of pedestrians barely allow for a clear view. I somehow make my way to the core of the crowd, and find the driver of the car leaning down on the steering wheel.
No one seems to be present in the seats behind, except for a couple of cardboard boxes, all seeming to be loaded with monkey caps and onesies. I immediately pull the passed out woman by her shoulders, and come across the wound bordering her hairline. She looks old, around fifty, and just the fact is enough to make me nervous.
I call 911, which even though arrives within minutes, feels like a lifetime to me.
***
I felt obligated to accompany the lady to the hospital.
The receptionist over here has handed me a patient form, and I am filling out as much as I can— mostly the incident details, certain bits conceited. Shaky palms don't help settling with a grip on the pen, and the writing comes out all sloppy. On the insistence of the same receptionist, I take a break from power walking in the halls and reluctantly seat myself down a seat while waiting for some update on her condition. It couldn't be serious, yet the little lingering doubt is ample to feed on my terrified insides as of the moment.
