Chapter Eight: On The Flip-Side
Fucking cunt Stupid bitch Fucking crazy...
It was finally dark- no more burning sun, no more being scared out of his mind, no more, no more-
He had shut his eyes on the impact of the car going off- or, more appropriately, running- off of the side of the road. He didn't know what to think as he opened his eyes. He could have opened his eyes to realize that he had been disemboweled (could that happen? Could he be disemboweled during a car wreck?) or that his head had pieces of jagged glass sticking out of him like he was a pincushion. Anything.
As he allowed himself to re-acquaint himself with his body, Gerald was finally able to heave a ragged sigh. Somehow, he had survived the crash.
After coming to terms with the fact that he was alive, Gerald did what was automatic for him. He pushed the seatbelt off, fought with the passenger's side door for a moment, then climbed through the passenger's side window when the door, as busted up as it was, refused to open.
Another instinct that came over him was the immediate urge to go find a phone. He tore off across the street from the crash, spinning around blindly in the search for a pay phone. Or a person.
It took him a few moments to remember that they were still out in the middle of nowhere, on a basically abandoned highway.
Remembering that, panic seized once more at Gerald.
Okay, he had just survived a horrible car accident; the driver, the driver...
Wait, where WAS Layla...?
Gerald felt what could have been pity. He was a jerk, sure, and he would eventually make the stupid bitch sorry for driving them- him- off of the road, but even a ghoul had to care about somebody who had been with him in a car wreck. Even if the reason had been the other person in the car with him.
He began to walk over to the other side of the road. His foot falls seemed slowed as he walked over to the driver's side. The car was totaled; there was to be no doubt whatsoever about that. The road they had crashed off of was, unfortunately, a little more raised off of the ground from the area around the strip of abandoned highway. The car had hit a little cluster of rocks that stuck out of the sand at a very fast speed. He had tried to warn the idiot that she had been nearing a hundred horses, but the stupid, stupid girl had refused to listen him. What the hell was he supposed to do now?
If only she hadn't heard me muttering, he thought bitterly.
He neared the driver's side door. Her window, like his, and like the backs, were open. At first, the contrast from the bright glow of the sun outside and the creepy, almost deathly darkness in the car made it almost impossible to pick out any of the shapes inside of the car. Then, slowly, he began to make out the shape of the woman who now looked more like a rag doll from where she hung onto the steering wheel, limp. Her forehead rested on the top of the steering wheel, so nothing, except from what he could see in peeks in her long, tangled mess of hair, and her shut left eye, was visible of her face. But to Gerald, she looked definitely dead.
He was uncomfortable, staring at the person who had killed herself, and who had, almost, done him in as well,. He had seen dead bodies on TV- sure, who hadn't, right?- but he had never seen one in person. He hadn't even been to a funeral before. He didn't like the idea that somebody who had looked so vibrant in anger before could look so still and broken moments later.
He didn't have to touch her; he would never make himself do that. But he needed to get back in there.
He walked around to the other side and peered in through what had been his side window during the badly fated ride. He was looking for a flash of clear plastic.
And then, there it was. Their last water bottle.
As he reached in, though, he felt inexplicably bad for taking it. He shouldn't, he told himself. She was dead- and dead girls didn't drink water. --
