Come on, now, it says. Let’s hit the road, Jack. He sucks in a lungful of air, gasping though it’s not choking him from the inside, or doing anything except talking in that insolent, amused tone that drags through his head like claws, leaving behind bloody furrows. Oh, but you might want to close your eyes. You don’t want to watch this.
He’s aware that he’s climbed out of the bed that’s held him for days and that he’s resting his weight on both his legs. He expects the broken one to snap beneath him, but it doesn’t, and he finds himself moving swiftly, like his limbs aren’t mismatched, and both his arms are swinging freely and painlessly at his sides.
He doesn’t quite know what happens next – the speed of the thing inside him is as formidable as its strength. All that he can piece together is the memory of blood blooming under his fist, the cast lending his blows extra weight, his punches snapping with military precision, and then he’s out of the hospital, dressed in his own jeans and shirt, getting into a car that’s been left in front of the ER entrance with the engine still running. He peels out and drives.
He wishes he had the Colt in his hand. He knows he wouldn’t falter. All he’d have to do is bring his hand up, slide the gun into his mouth and let the weight of it hang heavy on his lip, make his jaw feel like rock, and squeeze the trigger like sweet release.
He pulls over onto the shoulder so that he won’t kill someone else in a collision. He manages to open the glove compartment. Any gun will do. Clearly he’s worth something to it, so if he could take himself off the board, remove himself from the game, whatever it’s planning won’t go quite so smoothly. His hand scrabbles desperately, rifling through the papers that are stuffed into the glove compartment, dropping them onto the passenger seat and floor like confetti as his fingers dart into the corners over and over again, willing a weapon to materialize from the dust and grit.
He screams when it speaks, words slicing into his head again. Oh, no, Johnny it says. Let’s have no more of that kind of talk. You have to live, live for your precious boys. You have to stay strong. It pauses and he throws every curse he can think of at it, chanting Latin under his breath. It laughs. Thought you were going to be more interesting than that, Jack boy it says, mockingly, voice dripping with disappointment. Well, if you can’t keep me entertained, you don’t get to speak anymore. What’s that your boy likes to say? Driver picks the music? You’re shotgun now, Johnny; I’m driving. Best get used to it.
Still gen, still R-ish.
Word count (today): 474
Word count (total): 6268 (20.89%)