Crashed (Driven, #3)(2)

“No, silly,” he says with a roll of his eyes and a huff of breath before pointing over my shoulder. “Look. You’re broken.”

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 f*cking 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 f*cking 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 motherf*cking 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 f*cking dive bar.

Humpty f*cking 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 *, 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 f*cking 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 f*cking face—on the gurney.

My heart crashes. Sputters. Stops. Dies.

Spiderman.

Grey skin. Eyes swollen, bruised, and closed. Lips lax and pale.

Batman.

Devastation surrenders, desperation consumes, life sputters, and yet my soul clings.

Superman.

“No!” I yell at the top of my lungs until my voice falls hoarse. No one turns. No one hears me. Every f*cking person is unresponsive—my body and the medics.

Ironman.

The body on the gurney—my body—jolts as someone climbs on the stretcher and starts compressions on my chest. Someone fastens the neck brace. Lifts my eyelids and checks my pupils.

Thwack.

Wary faces. Defeated eyes. Routine movements.

Thwack.

“No!” I shout again, panic reigning within every ounce of me. “No! I’m right here! Right here! I’m okay.”

Thwack.

Tears fall. Disbelief stutters. Possibilities vanish. Hope implodes.

My life blurs.

My eyes focus on my hand hanging limp and lifeless off of the gurney—a single drip of blood slowly making its way down to the tip of my finger before another compression on my chest joggles it to drip on the ground beneath. I focus on that ribbon of blood, unable to look back at my face. I can’t take it anymore.

Can’t stand watching the life drain from me. Can’t stand the fear that creeps into my heart, the unknown that trickles into my subconscious, and the cold that starts to seep into my soul.

“Help me!” I turn to the little boy so familiar but so unknown. “Please,” I beg, an imploring whisper, with every ounce of life I have in me. “I’m not ready to …” I can’t finish the sentence. If I do then I’m accepting what is happening on the gurney before me—what his place beside me signifies.

“No?” he asks. A single word, but the most important one of my f*cking life. I stare at him, consumed by what is in the depths of his eyes—understanding, acceptance, acknowledgment—and as much as I don’t want to leave the feeling I have with him, the question he’s asking me—to choose life or death—is the easiest decision I’ve ever had to make.

And yet, the decision to live—to go back and prove like f*cking hell that I deserve to be given this choice—means that I’ll have to leave his angelic little face and the serenity his presence brings to my otherwise troubled soul.