Me & Her

Her

Ow.

Note to self: cross car crash off the bucket list. Cross it off several times. Score a monster of a red line through it. Ow.

The thought vibrates like a charging phone, on again, off again. On. I'd never realised how much pain could brand me, scar me without even trying. Never been so glad to be off my period. My eyes remain shut, as if magnetised. Or maybe, deep down, I don't want to wake up and finally see the fallout. Shifting, I realise I'm still in my seat, despite only reaching for the belt at the last millisecond. My hand is still lanced to the polyester webbing, never letting go. I don't need to open my eyes to know I'm bleeding. Where the pain is hot upon my skin, blood had spilt. I know that from experience. Too much experience. Where I'm cold, I sense the shock, the adrenaline. Some part of me reels at the thought of opening my eyes. Of seeing whatever Miss Kirby has become in the driver's seat next to me. If the impact hasn't thrown her through the windscreen. The impact. The shot. The bullet.

Jolting upwards, my eyes wrench open. The air is fuzzy, with black spots like flies hovering in my vision. The dashboard is crumpled, the windscreen more than cracked, smothered with grit from the road. The streetlight we smashed into hangs at a jaunty angle, spilling sparks onto the hood of the car. My breath shakes.

Easing to one side, I carefully unravel the seatbelt from around my wrist; it leaves a bright red snake coiled under my skin. Still shaking, I force myself to look at her. At Miss Kirby, whoever she really was. Whoever her family were. Whoever would miss her now that she is gone. I leaned forward, gasping a little at the splattered blood on the windscreen. Having seen so much death, you'd think I'd be used to it by now. Somehow, it always burns your lungs when you see someone else, who was once so alive, lying extinguished in front of you. Her head is slumped, caught like a fish over the steering wheel. Her hands, fingers broken and bloodied, are splayed by the gear stick. I can't see her face – don't want to. I look around, neck twinging. Mr. Dark. Where is Mr. Dark? Where is he? An ache makes itself known, while the adrenaline begins to wear off. Pain comes slowly this time, but when it arrives, it almost renders me immobile. My head falls back against the seat, my shredded hands and bloodied clothes sinking against me.

Lifting an arm, I place a hand on Miss Kirby's shoulder. Her body. The car is completely totalled, the bonnet crushed beyond repair. The wingmirrors are bent outwards like broken feathers, but I no longer care. All I have the energy to do is just sit here, mind rattling with thoughts of Mr. Dark being carted off somewhere, experimented on. Improved to be their emotionless killing machine. I choke back a half-laugh. It's almost cliché, the whole super-soldier thing. I thought war without machines was old news. Thought it was all viruses and nuclear bombs. I guess not.

The world may not want war, but people do.

They will look for any excuse to start a fight.

Well, they won't be starting one with me, or Mr. Dark. Not if I can help it.

My body sags, threatening to slip back under. For a brief time, I let my eyes wander closed, until the cracking of glass upon pavement opens them again. It takes too long for me to focus, but when I do, a small smile creases my lips. Mr. Dark. He's standing beyond the broken window, peering down at the glass in wander and awe. My smile fades.

He's covered in blood and it's not his own.

It's too fresh to be Miss Kirby's, and my cuts are superficial. What has he done? Why do I care? I've done worse.

As soon as he sees I'm awake, his face twitches and he rushes to pry open the car door. It bends beneath his grip. His hands hover above me, eventually closing around my shoulders. His callouses are harsh, but I don't mind.