Corpse's Car | Teen Ink

Corpse's Car

January 10, 2011
By MumblingMelanie DIAMOND, Jackson, Missouri
MumblingMelanie DIAMOND, Jackson, Missouri
79 articles 0 photos 210 comments

Favorite Quote:
Don't be a victim; be a titan.

Five minutes. All I need and I’ll never hear that freaking car ever again.
It’s freezing cold out here, well below thirty-two degrees. Maybe below zero – but, hey, I never claimed to be a weatherman. The binoculars have been on my face for what seems like an eternity, and I’m half scared to pull them away – there very well could be a layer of skin that comes with it.
With my free hand, numb and icy from the chill, I shove back the sleeve of my sweatshirt and check the clock on my wrist. Any second now, I’ll hear the screeching wheels, the blaring music, and the smell of exhaust will cut through the air that’s so cold it hurts to breathe in.
And there it is. I’m so tied up in my hallucinations I nearly miss the real thing drive by. But the idiot’s driving so freaking fast, he’s pretty easy to miss. My limbs are so numb I can hardly move them as I slide into my own vehicle and plow onto the road. Last week’s snowfall is piled at the end of the sloped driveway, and I’m losing time fast as I attempt to shove my way through.
By the time I’m following in his tire-marks, the rear lights are tiny stars in the midnight colored street, but I can still hear the irritating screaming of his wheels.
It feels like hours that we’re playing this demented game of tag, speeding past cookie cutter neighborhoods and flying over winding roads and merciless hills.
I’m dead concentrated on the red lights in front of me; I haven’t taken my eyes off of them since my tires were on the road. My cell phone rings, sending sharp sound vibrations through the air. I curse under my breath as I fumble around for speakerphone.
“Yeah?” I ask gruffly.
A cheery female voice erupts from the speaker. “Hello, Mr. Windella? Yes, I’m calling from the Bright Spirits Psychiatric Hospital. It seems you haven’t picked up your new prescription that we assigned over two months ago. Have you been taking your medications, sir?”
I let out an exasperated sigh. “Of course I have, you f***ing b****. Do I sound insane to you right now?”
Before she can reply, I hit the end button and train my eyes back on the lights. Not ten seconds later, the phone rings again. My fingers involuntarily accept the call.
“Mr. Windella, please, you really need to-“
“If there’s one thing I need to do, it’s hang up the freaking phone.” And I do just that. What a w****. I’m not crazy. I’m just not. I don’t need those effing pills.
Finally FINALLY his turn signals are on, the a**hole. And now his break lights…and yes! He’s stopping. And so the hell am I.
I swerve into the frozen driveway, blocking his only exit. The dark blue car door opens tentatively, and out steps a foot, clad in pink running shoes. Pretty freaking feminine for a regular law breaker.
I throw open my door theatrically, my black bag hanging tightly over my shoulder. I’m surprised there isn’t any steam rising from my ears.
In front of me isn’t any man, it’s just a girl. A teenage freaking girl with eyes the size of the moon and curly brown hair. She stares up at me with those enormous eyes of hers, looked terrified. A girl. Huh. Well, I’m not sexist. I bury my hand deep into my bag, already tightly gripping the handle.
“I’m sorry… Can I help you or something?” she asks in a nervous, high pitched voice, slowly backing towards the wooden front porch.
“No, but I can help you. You see, you’ve been shooting pass my house every day for the past month like your a** is on fire. And I really can’t tolerate it anymore.” I inform her, stepping closer.
She looks relieved for some reason, even dares to crack a smile. “Oh, no. You’ve got it all wrong. I just got my license today. Yesterday was my sixteenth birthday.” She replies happily, rooting around in her oversized bag and pulling out a small, gleaming card. A driver’s license.
The girl grins. “So, it really wasn’t me. This car was my gift, and it’s brand new,” she blabs proudly, admiring her car in the dim light. “I’m really sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused, though, I didn’t-“
But she pauses as I pull the silver knife out of my bag. “I really, REALLY don’t like liars, b****.” The shining blade is at her pale throat now, barely breaking the skin.
“But, I-“ and the rest of her words are drowned out by her own boiling blood. So much for final words, huh? More like final vomit.
The sticky goo oozes on my grey sleeve, and I push it up to my elbow. Blood is absolutely the most gorgeous thing ever, really, if you can appreciate that kind of thing.
I deposit my Baby into the canvas bag and turn around to walk away, before I realize the moonlight glinting off the corpse’s carbon-blue car. Shiny. New. Perfect. I’ll show it perfect. The dent in the car is the exact size of my boot, and I admire it with satisfaction. Nice one.
I yank open the entrance to my vehicle and throw the bag inside. I fish around awkwardly for my phone, and then switch it on. One new voice mail? I click it open to see who it’s from. Bright Spirits Psychiatric Hospital. Ugh. My finger accidently slips, and the message starts to play. It’s the W****’s voice again, this time more urgent than the last.
“Look, Mr. Windella, we can’t allow you to be out in society without your medications. You know what you’re like when you’re not on them. We’re sending someone over right away to-“ I click end and roll my eyes. To do what? Give me some drugs and a hearty lecture on the importance of being doped up for the rest of my life?
Screw that.
I aim my phone at the deathly (ha) pale body, and snap a picture.
Here’s one for the scrapbooks.

The author's comments:
I truly enjoy writing about the mentally unstable. It appears that's all I ever write about these historical fiction love seems to have faded. That's a pity, because it made me happy.
Anyway. Do enjoy and I hope it scared you. That's my job, so please tell me if it did :)
Have a quote, my lovely readers:

"Writing is like prostitution. First you do it for love, and then for a few close friends, and then for money."
--Moliere (I think that's how it's spelled - can't read my own handwriting.)

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