There is one stretch of road that lies between them. The steering wheel gives a little into the curves of the road and suddenly the whole damn thing gets clearer. There is a reason for the yelling. There is a reason for the verbal flaying and the constant badgering of his mind to do the right thing. There was a leather-faced former general and his minions burning neat little military sized holes in his already torn pockets and then, then the flash came over him, like he could feel their torches catching the threads of his jeans on fire. The hands he controlled and the mind -most of the time- was controlled by a lack of motivation and general longing for death. He'd never take his own life - too selfish- but would never take to mind a great deal the prospect of some horrible contagious disease to help him finally find justification for laziness in illness. The hours of sitting on the couch or in a hospital bed watching television. Hours of the West Wing and Columbo reruns. Hours of beautiful solace and freedom. The catheters couldn't too horribly, he had figured. It seemed to him that it couldn't hurt more than getting kicked in the nuts and he is only just south of right. Relinquishing all need for control he let go of the steering wheel and the car leaned it's way into the next lane. ...This is oncoming traffic... The lights grew heavier in his eyes. ...This is the part where the horn sounds loudest... And then a very loud noise, and then a very quiet noise.
Who knew that Swedish cars would work so fucking well? The whole thing, his accident had suddenly become a farce complete with big, flabby bags of air hurled in their faces like the proverbial pie. She didn't die. He didn't understand, he thought she hadn't been wearing her seatbelt and know she was very breathing and very crying and very disoriented. He just needed his one favor from whoever was getting his soul and he'd be golden. Now, instead of dead, alive... She'll ask about the accident. ...This is the sound a head being smashed against the broken door sounds like... His hands were now- what? - covered in her blood. He began to well up tears in his eyes and stroked the body's now very, very dead face. The man in the other car got out just in time to see him not killing, but holding the woman in his arms.
He managed to clamor from the wreck with the help of the TV repair man he'd just so recently nearly killed and leaned on his knees, realizing his breathing was rushed, like he was extremely excited. ...Your knuckles get white when you're nervous and remember to not look happy...
(More...)
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