Page 3 of Crashed (Driven 3)
I turn, the calm simplicity of his tone puzzling me, and look behind me.
My heart stops.
Thwack.
My breath strangles in my chest.
Thwack.
My body freezes.
Thwack.
I blink my eyes over and over, trying to push away the images before me. The sights permeate through a viscous haze.
Spiderman. Batman. Superman. Ironman.
Fuck. No. No. No. No.
“See,” his angelic voice says beside me. “I told you.”
No. No. No. No.
The air finally punches from my lungs. I force a swallow down my throat that feels like sandpaper.
I know I see it—the chaos right before my eyes—but how is it possible? How am I here and there?
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
I try to move. To fucking run! To get their attention to tell them I’m right here—that I’m okay—but my feet won’t listen to the ricocheting panic in my brain.
No. I’m not there. Just here. I know I’m okay—know I’m alive—because I can feel my breath catch in my chest when I take a step forward to get a closer look. Fingertips of dread tickle over my scalp because what I see … that can’t be ... it’s just not fucking possible.
Spiderman. Batman. Superman. Ironman.
The gentle whir of the saw pulls me from my ready-to-rage state as the medical crew cuts the driver’s helmet down the center. The minute they split it apart, my head feels like it explodes. I drop to my knees, the pain so excruciating all I can do is raise my hands up to hold it. I have to look up. Have to see who was in my car. Whose motherfucking ass is mine, but I can’t. It hurts too goddamn much.
… I wonder if there’s pain when you die …
I jolt at the feel of his hand on my shoulder … but the minute it rests there, the pain ceases to exist.
What the …? I know I have to look. I have to see for myself who is in the car even though I ultimately know the truth. Disjointed memories fracture and flicker through my mind just like pieces of the splintered mirror in that fucking dive bar.
Humpty fucking Dumpty.
Fear snakes up my spine, takes hold, and reverberates through me. I just can’t do it. I can’t look up. Don’t be such a pussy, Donavan. Instead, I look to my right into his eyes, the unexpected calm in this storm. “Is that …? Am I …?” I ask the little boy as my breath clogs my throat, apprehension over the answer holds my voice hostage.
He just looks at me—eyes clear, face serious, lips pursed, freckles dancing—before he squeezes my shoulder. “What do you think?”
I want to shake a fucking answer out of him but know I won’t. Can’t. With him here at my side amidst this whirling chaos, I’ve never felt more at peace and yet at the same time more scared.
I force my eyes from his serene face to look back at the scene in front of me. I feel like I’m in a kaleidoscope of jagged images as I take in the face—my fucking face—on the gurney.
My heart crashes. Sputters. Stops. Dies.
Spiderman.
Grey skin. Eyes swollen, bruised, and closed. Lips lax and pale.
