Robin Wasserman: Wrath

“We’re getting out!” Harper cried, and Kaia closed her eyes, letting the wind thunder in her ears, the sun warm her face. Whatever had happened, whatever would happen, they had this one moment.

And in this moment, they were finally free.

He didn’t see them until it was too late.

They came barreling over the hill out of nowhere, swerving from lane to lane as if they owned the road. He’d been up all night, driving across the state. His reflexes maybe weren’t what they should have been, and the van was hard to maneuver.

He veered out of the way as soon as he spotted them-but it wasn’t soon enough.

The scream of the metal as his van sliced through the body of their car-it was a sound he’d remember for the rest of his life.

It was a long, slow, grinding whine, a high screech, a sickening crunch.

The van was big, tough. And when it was over, the van was pretty much intact.

The BMW wasn’t as lucky. The force of the impact had knocked it off the road, flipped it over, crushed it.

It barely looked like a car anymore. And whoever had been inside-

He looked away.

Not my fault, he assured himself. Not my problem .

The van was dented, but still running. And he had a long drive ahead of him. Better to start now.

Someone else would come along, eventually.

They always did.

It hurt to open her eyes. It hurt to move.

She did neither.

There may have been sirens, in the distance. Or maybe it was just the loud whine in her head. Or maybe she was screaming. Still screaming. She remembered-

What?

Horns.

Squeals.

And then she had been weightless, flying.

Darkness.

She could hear her breathing, ragged and slow. And she could feel pain. Everywhere.

Alive, she decided. I hurt, therefore I am .

There was something missing, though.

She could hear her breathing-but nothing else.

She remembered her screams-but nothing else.

She opened her eyes. All she saw, at first, was the bright white blazing sky. Then, slowly: tangled metal. Smoke. Licks of flame. Dirt. Rivers of red. And…

A body. Still.

She tried to open her mouth and call out. But no sound came. And in the wreckage, nothing-no one-moved.

She tried to reach out, to crawl over, but she was swept up in a wave of pain. It sucked her down, deep, back into the darkness, and she closed her eyes again, and let it drag her under.

Help was on the way.

And, eventually, it showed up.

Two ambulances tore off toward town, one speeding down the highway, lights blazing, sirens blaring. The other took its time, stopped at traffic lights, observed the speed limit. Its lights were dark, its sirens silent.

There was no hurry.

There was no one left to save.

Robin Wasserman enjoys writing about high school-but wakes up every day grateful that she doesn’t have to relive it. She recently abandoned the beaches and boulevards of Los Angeles for the chilly embrace of the East Coast, as all that sun and fun gave her too little to complain about. She now lives and writes in New York City, which she claims to love for its vibrant culture and intellectual life. In reality, she doesn’t make it to museums nearly enough, and actually just loves the city for its pizza, its shopping, and the fact that at 3 a.m. you can always get anything you need-and you can get it delivered.