G. Wright - Broken Things

The street remained empty of actual people, and the kid had reached the next block. He looked like a smart one too. He looked both ways, like he’d been programmed with a survival mechanism, which only enhanced his illusion of life.

Lance slowly gave the truck gas. He didn’t peel out anymore, that made people look out their windows. Still, the engine growled in approval, as though it read his mind. It must have, he’d read that cars nowadays were nearly as smart as their drivers. He didn’t go for any of those new cars, his was vintage. He liked to hear what he drove, and not that annoying electronic buzz. This thing still guzzled gas as though it came from the previous century.

The kid heard him coming. Within the nearly two blocks he had the speedometer up to forty, and it roared like the tiger he saw it as, hungry for synthetic blood. The kid didn’t look concerned and pedaled closer to the curb. With such a nice wide street as this one, he probably felt safe.

Lance couldn’t hold back a high-pitched giggle as he swerved at the last second. The boy rewarded him with his eyes popping open impossibly wide in shock as he realized his impending doom. The sheer terror in the child’s face simply amazed him. Who would program such emotions? The collision of chrome and kid could be heard over the engine, a sweet, satisfying thump. Lance deeply appreciated his truck. There wouldn’t even be a dent.

Somehow the bike hooked his front bumper and child and bicycle rode along with Lance as a figurehead on a ship. He swerved back and forth, whipping the steering wheel from side to side in an attempt to force the kid loose. He didn’t always get an effective hit, but if he could just get the kid to tumble under the tire...

A few more jerks of the steering wheel and the bike came free, twisting hard to the right. The truck hardly registered the impact as the bike went under, but the boy tumbled away. He couldn’t see what happened, but only the results. The boy did not go under the tire.

Lance’s foot came off of the gas pedal and hovered over the brake. In the rear-view mirror, he watched as the boy bounced and tumbled, finally coming to rest against the curb. Beyond the boy, parts and pieces of the bicycle stretched for nearly the entire block. The child, however, remained in one piece.

He slammed his fist into the dashboard, throwing up a small cloud of dust and leaving an impression of the ball of his hand behind like a mutant footprint. His eyes darted back and forth to watch the road and witness the damage to the kid at the same time. He had to have broken him, he just couldn’t tell. Kids didn’t have luck. They were fragile, delicate machines. They always broke. He ran the options through his head, trying to decide whether to reverse and run him over again, or maybe circle the block. No, he had to leave. He couldn’t take the chance of being caught and forced to pay restitution. He whipped the truck around the next corner, deciding to leave the boy behind. Dissatisfaction left bile in the back of his throat, and he spat out the window in disgust.

Next weekend , he promised, I’ll find one and break it right.

Josh remembered the truck clearly, trying to hold himself up, fingers scratching at the hood. The heat of the grill burned his arms. He couldn’t tell if he hurt from the initial contact or from the heat. He remembered a weird abstract revulsion of touching the myriad collection of splattered bugs, though it felt as though he were being added to the collection. Inches from his face, half of a dragonfly twitched as though alive, animated in death by the wind drag.

He remembered the bike and the sound it made as it scraped along the road, emphasized by the snapping of parts as they tore free, the truck biting off pieces one at a time. He slid lower off of the hood and down the grill, and knowing that if he were to fall past the bumper he’d instantly be dragged under. The bike yanked him lower. The frame had caught on his leg. He was the only thing holding the bike up.

The glare of the sun off of the windshield hid most of the driver’s face. All he could see was eyes and teeth as though it were being driven by a formless monster. The glare could not hide the driver’s sadistic glee.

Josh had absorbed all of this within the span of but a few seconds. When the man whipped the steering wheel from side to side the bike slid off of the bumper taking the boy with it. A brief jolt of pain as the bike shot away tore up his leg as the pedal raked across his calf. He caught one last glimpse of the bike as it slipped beneath the tire of the truck. He hit the ground rolling, seeing chrome and rubber pass within inches of his face.

The world spiraled. The road tore at him as he tumbled, until he finally came to a brutal stop in the gutter, body slamming into the curb. It took a minute for his head to stop spinning, to equilibrate with his motionless body.

He blinked, bringing the blue sky with its few wisps of clouds into focus, and with it came the pain. It radiated from everywhere, inside and out. The pain in his arms and legs stung, and his back and head just hurt.

What if the man came back? He had to get out of the street. He had to get home. He rose up on his hands, fighting the vertigo that made him want to lie back down. Had anyone seen what had happened? He turned his head slowly, but everywhere looked peaceful and empty. The perfect image of a street lined with perfect homes seemed strangely juxtaposed with the carnage of pieces of twisted blue metal scattered down the street.

Josh turned his attention back to the stinging in his arms. His elbow was nothing but bloody torn flesh, so deep he could see metal. The gore made his stomach heave, threatening to bring up his breakfast. He picked at the gravel embedded in his flesh, but it made his mouth fill with bile. His knees looked much the same, though not as deep. He’d lost skin from both, and a gash on the back of his calf from the pedal looked like he’d been clawed by a giant cat.

The sound of a car approaching made his heart miss a beat. He whipped his head around, nearly causing him to black out. It wasn’t the truck. He sighed in relief and waved his arms as it approached. Being so close to rescued, tears filled his eyes. He didn’t care if they saw him cry. He deserved the respite, after being through a crash like that. He’d lived!

But the car didn’t slow. Through the side window, he caught a glimpse of the driver’s face looking at him curiously, but no concern. The driver even had to cross into the opposite lane to go around the scrap of his bike!

He watched the car continue down the street until it disappeared from his sight. It hadn’t stopped! Why hadn’t it stopped?

He propped himself up on the curb and forced himself to ignore the pain, to get back on his feet. Someone had to help him. He walked on trembling legs toward the nearest house. It looked safe, beckoning him with its well-trimmed lawn and bright flower beds. It looked like a place that could remove him from the nightmare he’d just experienced. They would call his parents and everything would be okay. His parents would know what to do. They always did. No matter how bad he’d been hurt, they’d always made it better. Granted, he’d never been hit by a car before, but that was why they were adults.

He managed five steps before his legs buckled. He dropped to his knees in the cool green grass, thankful to be off of the pavement. He dragged himself toward the house. He should’ve stayed home and watched cartoons. He’d gotten up early to play video games, but his mother had been so testy. So what if he’d played for three hours? His brain couldn’t rot, no matter what they said. He’d told her so, but she’d made him go out and ride his bike anyway. After this, she’d let him play video games any time he wanted.