that kind of fear that's like plastic wrap

She had accepted his change of subject with enthusiasm; it seemed that she was not as keen on the gaping holes subject as he had first thought. This relieved him. He wanted a polished opinion of her for as long as he could hold one, something shiny in his collection of not so shiny opinions. "Wow, Florida is not very far," he said, before he could stop himself. "Oh, lord, I've been everywhere, I don't know where to start... Um, I guess the first place I went was Canada..."

Thankfully, the conversation between the two of them was even and, for the most part, caused no other emotional confessions from either. What they talked about was something he was never quite sure of afterwards, just a jumble of facts and opinions that stuck firmly in his brain. For an hour and a half, they talked. For an hour and a half, the lone boy and the lone girl, from their separate places, voiced and voiced and voiced.

And then...

"I'm in Athens," he said, in response to her question, switching the phone to his other ear to give his right a break. He was pulling towards a hold up of cars at a light.

The catalyst of the catastrophe that followed was not fully understood by Sebastian after it happened. From an onlooker, perhaps one above this dark scene, they would see something horrific but completely mundane. A small boxy Volvo drove down the highway, a line of cars before him. There were cars all around, all of which had their bright red brake lights on to ease their cars to a stop at the light. All, that is, but that small, dark blue Volvo. And, there, that was what happened. That Volvo did not slow, it did not stop, it went on at a much too fast speed, straight towards the rear end of a bright red Honda Accord. Then it swerved, swerved away from the Accord and sideways, in a mad turn, straight into the pole of a sign for the next interstate exit, smashing it over, and diving diagonally into the ditch, before flipping on its side. Like something dead.

Inside the car, the driver had an entirely different perspective. He was talking to Trina on the phone one minute, and the next, he had put his foot down on the brakes, felt the pedal hit the floor with very little force behind the push, and panicked. His brakes were out, that was certain. He forgot that he was talking to Trina, but his hand was glued to his head. "My-my-my brakes, oh shit, no shit shit shit," was all he said, followed by a varying string of swear words. The car before him grew closer (hit the brakes over and over, his heart or lungs or general insides were all suffocating), he had no choice but to swerve (oh god), he did it (oh GOD), dropping the phone to use both hands, there was a smashing that he didn't understand, then the airbag blew into his face, smacking his body backwards against the seat, and then his world fell on its side, and his head smashed against the frame of his door, his temple was hit by the seatbelt adjuster, nerves connected to his brain and what had just been white went completely and utterly black.

The middle-aged black woman who was driving the red Honda Accord saw this and sent a prayer up to the deity of her choice, thanking it that her car hadn't been hurt, because if it had, she'da had to-a getten it fixed.