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formicineShe glances up to see the SUV coming toward her in a flash of silver, and the horn blares, and then everything goes into slow, strange focus.
It's not exactly her life flashing before her eyes. There have certainly been other moments that were a little more like that in Blue's 21 years of existence. It's more like an outside-herself, extended this is going to be bad in the milliseconds of time between the horn filling her ears, the squeal of brakes, and the crunch of metal on metal.
She lays on the pavement for a moment, letting the breath back into her lungs, and then it registers that the guy is actually yelling at her, yelling at her for hitting her, and Blue scrambles up in the middle of the intersection to flick him off with both hands, screaming, "I had the right of way and it's a zebra crossing, asshole," while blood streams down her arms and soaks through her jeans. He's yelling back about having a green light. None of it makes any sense.
Then, down the street, there's another screech of wheels and a smash, and they all shut up, unsettled and not sure what's going on. The sound of car horns makes her stomach drop, unmoored as though she's gone flying again.
Blue yanks her bike free in favor of keeping moving rather than letting herself process how sick she feels. Its rear tire is hopelessly bent out of shape, like a balloon someone had just let sit. She shakes off the offers of help and people touching her. She just needs to get someplace quiet and closer and safe.
That turns out to be Tris's place. She feels stupid, but apparently bloody and walking a crushed bike is weird enough to let in the apartment, and she knocks on the door with the side of her hand and leans her forehead against it.
It's not exactly her life flashing before her eyes. There have certainly been other moments that were a little more like that in Blue's 21 years of existence. It's more like an outside-herself, extended this is going to be bad in the milliseconds of time between the horn filling her ears, the squeal of brakes, and the crunch of metal on metal.
She lays on the pavement for a moment, letting the breath back into her lungs, and then it registers that the guy is actually yelling at her, yelling at her for hitting her, and Blue scrambles up in the middle of the intersection to flick him off with both hands, screaming, "I had the right of way and it's a zebra crossing, asshole," while blood streams down her arms and soaks through her jeans. He's yelling back about having a green light. None of it makes any sense.
Then, down the street, there's another screech of wheels and a smash, and they all shut up, unsettled and not sure what's going on. The sound of car horns makes her stomach drop, unmoored as though she's gone flying again.
Blue yanks her bike free in favor of keeping moving rather than letting herself process how sick she feels. Its rear tire is hopelessly bent out of shape, like a balloon someone had just let sit. She shakes off the offers of help and people touching her. She just needs to get someplace quiet and closer and safe.
That turns out to be Tris's place. She feels stupid, but apparently bloody and walking a crushed bike is weird enough to let in the apartment, and she knocks on the door with the side of her hand and leans her forehead against it.