Page 74 of Downfall

“What’s going on? Are you okay?” Her voice is rough from sleep and it’s only then that I remember that it’s after midnight.

“No, Mom. I…”

“What? What is it?”

“I lost her, Mom. I don’t…I don’t know where she is.”

There’s a beat of silence and then my mom’s panicked voice fills my ears. “Declan, listen to me. When did you see her last?”

My brain is so scrambled that I don’t catch on to the fact that she didn’t ask who I was talking about. She just knew.

“Declan.” Her voice is strained now.

“I don’t…it was a while ago. We were at home and we fell asleep. When I woke up, she was gone. It’s raining, Mom. She doesn’t like to drive in the rain.”

“Shit.”

I don’t think I’ve ever heard my mom curse. Not when my dad used to berate her. Not when he accused her of ruining our family. Not even when she walked in on him countless times with various women. Hearing that word come from my mother’s mouth sets off all sorts of alarm bells.

“Mom,” I whisper.

“I’m going to text you an address, Declan. You have to go there, okay? You have to see if she’s there.”

“What? You’re not making any sense.”

“Declan, please listen to me. You have to go there. Now.”

I don’t have time to ask her anything else because the call ends and my phone chimes with an incoming text.

Mom

27 Shadowbridge Rd.

There are a thousand questions bouncing around in my head, but I ignore them and plug the address into my phone before speeding off into the night. My hands grip the wheel so tightly that my knuckles lose all their color. I check my phone. It says only five more minutes, but when I round the next corner, a flashing red light catches my eye. That’s when I see it. A car is completely wrapped around the trunk of an oak tree, glass shattered everywhere, the turn signal still blinking. I should check for injuries and call 911, but all I can think about is getting to Skylar.

There’s this psychiatric phenomenon called cognitive avoidance. I’m not sure how I remember it from my freshman year intro psych class, but I do. It’s when your brain shuts out certain details or sensations when you’re in a traumatic situation. As I get out of the car and turn on the flashlight on my phone, it’s the only reason I can think of as to why I don’t realize that the car I'm staring at is the same color as Skylar’s or that it has her custom vanity plate. Noozgirl. I chuckled to myself when I first saw it at her dad’s house, thinking she wasn’t the type to have a vanity plate and that she must have lost a bet. I didn’t bring it up at the time, but now as I take in the mangled metal and smoke swirling up from the wreckage, all I want to do is ask her about it. I want to know if she really wanted it. I want to know if she did it for someone else, or if she smiled to herself when she filled out the form at the DMV.

I bring the phone up to my ear automatically, the ringing shallow and echoing like it’s coming from somewhere else.

“There’s been a car accident,” someone says. “Shadowbridge Road at the corner of Chestnut.” It takes me a second to realize the voice is mine.

“Are you hurt, sir? Is there anyone else with you?” The voice on the other end sounds as distant as the ringing, as if it's not actually there.

“I’m….”

“Sir, are you still there? We have an ambulance en route to your location.”

My hand falls, and the thirty seconds it takes for the denial to dissipate and reality to filter in will haunt me for the rest of my life. When it finally hits, I run. Past the tire tracks and the glass scattered along the side of the road. I almost slip on the oil-slicked asphalt as I skid to a stop in front of the car. The windshield is a mess of spiderweb cracks that catch the light of my phone. It’s hard to see, but when I look to the side, I can make out her form through the shattered window. Skylar is slumped forward against the deflated airbag. Her dark red hair is covered in glass and blood, falling over her face the way it does when she’s sleeping. It’s damp, matted from the rain, or maybe she took a shower before she left the house. Her seatbelt is still fastened, one of her hands resting loosely near the steering wheel. The other is folded in her lap, her fingers curled, like she tried to grab onto something. A thin line of blood runs down from her temple, but I can’t see anything else below her neck. I can’t see if her chest is rising or still, if there’s more blood or injuries.

I try the handle of the door, but it doesn’t budge. I don’t think. I don’t hesitate. I just drive my fist through the remaining glass until there’s a big enough hole for me to climb through. I’m vaguely aware of the pressure against my arm as a jagged shard bites into me, but it doesn’t hurt.

“Skylar.” Her name feels more like a plea than a greeting, but she flicks open her eyes, her lips turning up into a small smile.

“Declan.”

“Hey, Firefly.”

Her chest is rising and falling but not in the way it should. It seems to inflate only partially and then catches halfway through the breath. Something is wrong. She looks like she wants to say something else, but her head lolls to the side, and blood from her temple slides down across her cheek with the movement, dripping onto the collapsed airbag. My eyes are drawn to where it sags against her, and that’s when I see it. More blood, soaking the front of her sweatshirt beneath the seatbelt. It’s dark, and I watch helplessly as it spreads, each thread of fabric turning red.