The explosion rattles the windows of the house. Sound seems to travel slower than it usually does, and there's a ringing in your ears as you recover from the momentary shock. Your mother seems to have managed to disappear from your line of vision.
It hits you then.
Cameron, Cameron, Cameron
You rush out of the room, knocking over the chair as you go. Running - running through the house, down the carpeted foyer, bursting out of the front door. The smoke burns your eyes as you make your way across the porch, bare feet against the rough, worn wood. You don't feel the steps as you make your way down them, probably because you didn't. Why waste time on individual steps when you can just jump? You feel the impact in your knees as you hit the grass running, faster. Perspiration drips off your fringe as the heat emanating from the burning car threatens to burn you alive if you come any closer.
"Cameron!" You cough out as the flames sear your eyes.
She's a freaking Terminator. She won't die. She can't die. Right?
The car door is flung unceremoniously onto the road. Somehow, your laughter seems to emerge at the worst moments. You see the familiar dark brown cascade of hair. She cocks her head at that familiar angle, the metal under her skin glinting and reflecting the orange flames and the summer sunlight.
"John Connor." You grin. She makes her way past the broken fender and random car bits, which you should remember from mechanics class but you don't.
You remember the way she brushed her hand across the side of your neck that night Mom made you hack into the police database.
"John Connor, terminate." Flesh and metal don't go well together. You feel her hand close around your throat.
You remember her warm touch, the feel of her palm – just for the briefest moment- on your neck.
Her hand is on your neck now, but it sure as hell isn't worth remembering.
