Pontiac Bonneville

A short, short story. Language Warning!

I am in the woods right now, and it is nighttime. Not only is it nighttime, but my piece of s**t Pontiac Bonneville just died on me, and I'm at least thirty minutes from the nearest town. And don't even get me started on how cliché my situation is at the moment. Seriously, is Eric Kripke writing the script for my life right now? Is a murderous scarecrow about to lure me to my death, Supernatural style? Because, believe me, I'd prefer a warning next time. If I'd known at the beginning of tonight that I was going to die I would have worn my cute shoes instead of these awful clogs. Yes, clogs. I was having a nineties moment, okay?

Oh, God. I'm going to die out here and I'm wearing clogs and a Christmas sweater. Okay. Just...calm down. Breathe. I'll just...call for help? Because obviously, that's what cell phones are for. Thank God I charged it before I went to the party, right? Thank God I definitely did not leave it on Alex's bed after I changed into aforementioned hideous Christmas sweater (for comfort purposes, obviously). Nope. Because that would be completely stupid of me and ohgodwhereismyfuckingcellphone.

Well, okay, then. No cell phone, no car battery, and six hours until dawn. And even the Christmas sweater is refusing to do its only job--that is to say, keep me warm. I mean, what kind of world do we live in when suddenly the only thing a sweater is good for is looking ugly? A world of teachers and librarians, I guess. And I get to say that, because I'm both.

Well, on the bright side, at least this night can't get any worse. I've already been dumped, made a fool of at a party I didn't want to go to in the first place by a guy who thinks that it's socially acceptable to walk around with no shirt on and pants that are tighter than mine, and now I'm stuck in the middle of nowhere in a car that was glued together about seven years before I was born. At least there's not a creepy man in my backseat, right? RIGHT?

Oh, God. Now I have to check, don't I? I really, really don't want to turn around and look back there. It's probably number seventy-billion on the list of things I hoped I would be doing today. I guess I'll just have to...yes. I'm turning now. I'm definitely turning around, and...

Okay. No murderous man in the backseat. Excellent. My night is looking up already. I'll just make sure the doors are locked. That sounds like it would be a good idea. Yes.

Maybe if I honk the horn enough somebody will hear me. Maybe someone has a cabin in the woods or something. Or, or, maybe I just honked the horn really loudly about fifteen times and now all of the murderous hermits who live in the woods know exactly where I am.

Do I have any weapons in here? Guns? Knives? Bayonets? D****t, Romney, why don't I have a bayonet?! Well, I guess I always have my clogs. I'm pretty sure I could knock someone out with one of those suckers. But I mean, I don't want to kill them.

Oh, God. I can't go to prison! Imagine, me in jail for murder by clog. I feel like there's no way to claim self-defense while I'm wearing a Christmas sweater in March and only have one shoe on. Who will believe me? I'll be the laughingstock of the world. There'll be a meme of me within hours"Crazy Clog Lady. D****t. I knew I should have worn my cute sho--

Hold it. Did...did I just hear something that sounded suspiciously like a knock coming from the back window of this car? A normal person would probably think that it's just a tree branch tap-tap-tapping away, but, nope, that's an axe murderer if I've ever heard one.

Wait, I don't think that's my window...is that coming from my trunk?

Oh. Fan-f*****g-tastic. The fates are having fun with me today.

Okay, I'll get out. But it's really cold out and the only weapon I have now is an unfashionable piece of footwear. And--nope. No, that was definitely someone's voice. Coming from my trunk.

Damn, this trunk door is heavy. I'll just have to...hey! I'll just try to wave my clog around in a threatening manner now, I guess.

“Who are you and why are you in my trunk?” And why is she gagged? And why does it kind of sound like she's saying “Look out behind you?” And why--

Author's Note

I'm going to try to write one every week through November, each one named after its prompt.