I needed something to write because I've been wanting to do something writing-related lately. Please note that I don't own any characters and whatnot.
Oh god.
It was an accident. He could hear himself saying it again and again, apologizing profusely. Sorry, sorry, sorry, but he should have known. Sorry didn't put brains back into skulls. Sorry didn't fix broken bones. Sorry didn't put blood back into the body, and it didn't bring people back to life no matter how many times he said it.
He could hear his date—he didn't even know her name—screaming. Something about calling the cops, about telling someone. She staggered out of the car on too-high heels, tottering over to him. Keith, we have to tell someone, we have to—
Surely this wasn't real. Perhaps if he squinted, really screwed his eyes up tight, he could see past the gore that covered the front of his car. He could see past the dead, nameless body in the middle of the street.
It would take a lot more than squinting to fix the mess he was in.
Keith? Keith? Are you—we need to call the police… it was an accident, wasn't it Keith? Tell them you were drunk, tell them—
A putrid odor wafted toward him, mixed with the metallic scent of blood. The person, whoever they were, had soiled themselves. Briefly his eyes flitted over the corpse. Taking inventory. Broken neck? Broken legs? Broken head?
Check, check, and check.
His date hung off him, still screeching into his ear, fingernails digging into his shoulder. Keith, we need—oh god, it's everywhere, it's everywhere… we need to call someone…
He was only vaguely aware of his telling her to shut up, to let him think for just a second. The second itself seemed to last longer than the entire ordeal, with his eyes remaining focused on the bloody mess before them. He could run away and hide somewhere, just like Ponyboy and Johnny had done. He could call the police and wait for them to come… wait for them to take him away, and this time he knew he wouldn't be coming out.