Flytrap | WATTYS 2022 SHORTLIST

24 | Honey

Screaming.

So much screaming.

On and on they went. So loud, so close. It wasn't until she saw the blinding red and blue flashes fly past her did she realize they weren't screams at all. They were sirens.

But why? What had happened?

Slowly raising her head off the ground, Barbara blinked the dust crusting her eyes and turned to the side. She barely moved an inch when an agonizing pain, unlike anything she'd ever felt before, shot through her. Her mouth opened and let out an involuntary scream, morphing into a strangled gasp halfway through as she inhaled a thick cloud of ash.

Tears leaked from her eyes as whatever was on top of her pressed down on her back, crushing her. Bits of glass clung to her hair and dress, falling to the pavement like stardust with each ragged breath she took.

Unable to breathe thanks to the ash and dust lining her lungs, blind panic took over Barbara, causing her to squirm beneath the rubble like a wriggling insect about to be squashed. Shit, this was not good. Not good at all.

A cool trickle of liquid ran down the back of her neck, and for a moment, Barbara feared it might be blood. Now was not the time to be bleeding out, not when she was only seconds away from sinking back into unconsciousness. Moaning, she brushed her fingers against her nape and to her immense relief, found only slick clear moisture on the tips of them. Sweat. It was nothing but sweat.

Though the heat from the fire bristled against her skin, it was not enough to keep her from shivering. She was wrong; she had felt this pain before. Back in the summer. Back in the car crash.

A painful whimper left her lips as soon as the thought crossed her mind. So that's where she was. She was back in Chicago. Back in that car.

It had come out of nowhere, a bright flash of headlights out of the corner of her eye followed by the sound of crunching metal. Before she knew it, the car was spinning across the slick pavement, out of her control.

The squeak of something nearby and in dire need of some oil made Barbara glance up. Just a few feet ahead on the pavement laid an overturned wheelchair, its wheel still continuing to spin. She stared at it, trying to figure out who it belonged to. No one she knew owned a wheelchair. Maybe it came from the other car that slammed into them?

A raindrop landed on her cheek, gently kissing her skin. As if on instinct, Barbara wiped the side of her face, her gaze shifting to the concrete coated in ice.

No, this was wrong. She wasn't back in the mangled car. It had been the middle of the summer then, and there hadn't been a raindrop in sight.

That meant she was in Gotham. Her dad had been injured by Pamela, flung across the room, then possibly crushed to death.

Her dad was dead.

A swell of tears came to her eyes at the thought. Her dad was dead.

And she would be too if she didn't get out from under what was left of the courthouse.

Screw that. She was not going to be killed by this city, not today.

She might not be able to move her body, but she could move her mouth. Though her tongue might feel like a wad of sandpaper stuck to the roof of her mouth, her throat drier than bone, Barbara refused to just lie here waiting to be found. She tried shouting for help at first, but her words were nothing more than a faint wheeze lost to the wind.

And yet, it was enough to draw someone's attention.

Just as she thought she was about to black out again, a rush of cool air slapped her awake. The immense weight had been lifted off of her.