V.

     Donny navigated the truck through the familiar roads, not sure where he planned to go. He was exhausted: he’d been awake less than an hour and the day had taken all of his energy. He needed something to eat, but his stomach turned at the thought of food. He coughed again, feeling the acid taste of vomit in the back of his throat tinged with alcohol and blood.

      He pulled up to a red light and closed his eyes. His headache was constant now. He rubbed his forehead against the hand holding the steering wheel, grinding against his own knuckles, trying to push the pain out. The sound of a car horn jarred him to attention, and he realized he’d briefly fallen asleep at the wheel. Someone behind him in a gray SUV was laying on the horn.

      “S**t!” he yelled to himself. He hit the gas and turned right on Cantrell Road headed towards Jimmy’s house. It took a moment for him to realize where he was, and he quickly debated about going to see Jimmy.

      “No...No…” he decided, and hit the brakes. He could hear the screech of tires from the car behind him as it narrowly missed rear-ending his truck. Donny rolled his shoulders and turned the wheel all the way to the left, pulling a U-turn into the next lane. He turned to look and saw Artie Harris behind the wheel of the gray SUV; a look of recognition and immediate fury flashed across his face. Donny floored the gas, feeling a jolt of speed and panic that was all too familiar.

      He swerved into the other lane, trying to keep one eye on the road and one eye on the rearview mirror to see if he was being followed. Normally he would have stopped and confronted Artie head-on, but the morning had been hell on him and he was in no mood to fight.

      A car horn blared in front of him and he swerved back into the right lane, gripping the steering wheel until his fingers hurt. He looked in the mirror again and breathed a sigh of relief when he couldn’t spot the SUV. He breathed again, taking it in deep into his lungs. He breathed again, faster, trying to push the panic out. The day had thrown a lot at him, but he was still breathing. He tried to cough but couldn’t. His heart was racing from the adrenaline and his breaths were coming in short bursts, one after another after another.

      What is this… he thought as his head fell. What’s happening now? He couldn’t focus; his vision blurred and he couldn’t lift his head, which lolled to the side defiantly. A part of him realized the danger he was in, and he somehow forced his foot down on the brakes. He heard the squeal of rubber on concrete but it was dull and distant. His arms dropped down and his body fell into the passenger seat, as the world around him turned black.

Jimmy charged on, the wind whipping his face like waves in the ocean; strong and open. They’d been riding for 20 minutes. Jimmy was in the lead with the girl at his back, speeding and taking too many chances, all for the thrill of it. But Donny wasn’t thrilled. He was getting nervous, and nervous with Jimmy was never good. They were headed towards the North End where he knew the roads narrowed. It would be too dangerous for Donny to be showing off, speeding through uncertain curves in the dead of night.

Donny accelerated, feeling the wind push against his body, as if trying to hold him back. He fought through it and caught up to Jimmy, sounding the horn to try and get his attention. Jimmy looked over and gave him a salute, laughing at Donny’s nerve. Donny put out one hand and gestured for Jimmy to slow down. The girl laughed and leaned forward, yelling something into Jimmy’s ear. The roar of the engine and the rush of wind drowned out her words, but Donny was sure he saw her mouth the words: “Somebody’s jealous.”

Jimmy grinned again, but there was hostility in it. His gaze shot forward and he gunned the accelerator, shoving forward and out in front again.  Jimmy’s competitive edge was winning out, though Donny never meant to challenge him.

“Hey!” Donny yelled out and hit the accelerator. He was going too fast-the hum of the engine was a different sound than he’d ever heard before. His heart was jumping out of his chest, but he pushed on.

He passed Jimmy and moved in front. Jimmy’s grin dropped for a moment and the girl behind him squeezed his chest, cheering him on. Donny planned on decelerating as the roads narrowed, forcing Jimmy to slow down, but that would only work if Jimmy cooperated.

The first turn came and Donny’s stomach churned. Both bikes angled down, and he could see sparks flying off where the frame scraped the road. They cleared the turn but he knew they were going way too fast for the next one coming up.

Donny applied the brake slowly, hoping Jimmy would get the hint. He did not. Jimmy’s front wheel crept up close to Donny’s back wheel until they were less than a foot apart. Donny looked behind him and waved his hand for Jimmy to slow down, but Jimmy honked the horn instead. His eyes went wide and he flashed his high beams. Donny jerked his attention forward, just in time to see the road turn at an impossible angle.

He hit the brakes but knew they had no time. Everything moved in slow-motion: he felt the front of Jimmy’s bike hit his back tire, and his own bike jerked forward. His front tire jumped up as his hands were torn from the steering wheel, giving him a weightless feeling as he was lifted up into the sky.

Jimmy’s bike turned at a 45 degree angle, throwing the girl and Jimmy off. She was still laughing as her body soared through the air and tumbled onto the hard road in sickening turns. Her joints were twisted wrong, like a string puppet thrown into a corner. She was dead on impact. Jimmy’s body landed in the woods that bordered the road. His shoulder hit a tree and folded out with a loud crack. A low-hanging tree limb broke against the impact with his face and slowed his momentum. He fell to the ground moaning in pain.

Donny fell nearby, landing in a collection of leaves and twigs that cushioned the worst part of the fall. His body slid against the wet leaves, coming to rest when his head hit a rock that was jutting out of the ground like an iceberg. He felt the sticky heat of blood covering his face as he breathed against the dirt and leaves, taking in the rough scent of earth before he lost consciousness.

A man driving by was forced to stop from the piles of broken metal at the scene of the accident. He called 911 and ran to the girl first, but she was clearly and painfully dead. Emergency vehicles arrived and found the man crying. There was fresh vomit near the dead girl’s twisted body.

      Donny woke to noise and white light, half expecting to find his life had finally ended. The light began to take on moving shades that formed into many different people: hospital staff running from in and out of a door. He was in a pale-white room with a blue drape hanging from the ceiling to give the impression of privacy. His clothes were off, replaced with an ill-fitting gown that hovered above his knees. There was a white ice-pack covering his ankle, and he could see the skin underneath looked heavily bruised.

      He tried to move his arms and failed, noticing that one was attached to an IV tube dripping cold liquid into his vein. The other arm was stopped by a steel handcuff linked to a bed railing that clattered around when he moved, signaling he was awake. He could see heads moving and the unmistakable radio static of a policeman’s walkie-talkie.

      What happened? he thought. A nurse in pink scrubs walked in followed by an older man in a white doctor’s coat. The nurse checked the IV bag and a monitoring machine behind his head. She adjusted the bag and walked over to the doctor, who whispered something to her that made her face tighten. She looked at Donny and curled her lip before leaving the room.

      The doctor picked up a wooden clipboard by the edge of the bed and studied it, frowning and tapping his finger on the back of the board. Donny stared at him and coughed harshly, sliding the clasp of the handcuff up the railing, filling the room with the sound of metal clashing against metal. The cough irritated the pain in his throat, making it hard to swallow and speak. His head was swooning again and he felt the black creeping in from the corners of his eyes, but he gently shook his head and sat up. The doctor frowned again and clicked his tongue.

      “So,” said the doctor, placing the clipboard back. “How are you feeling, hmm?”

Donny watched him for a moment before responding, trying to measure whether the words would hurt coming out of his swollen throat.

      “Like a bruised t**d, Doc.” he said, wincing and closing one eye from the pain behind it.  “What’s goin on? Why am I here?” His voice was getting louder.  “And why do I have these on?” He jingled the cuff against the railing again for effect.

      “Let’s just take it easy, alright. My name is Dr. Peck. There’s an officer outside of the room; he’s gonna want some words with you in a minute. I just want to know a few things first, okay?”

      Donny shook his head yes and rested back on the bed. The bright hospital lights bounced off the white walls, making his pain worse.

      “You were unconscious when they brought you in. What’s the last thing you remember?”

      It hurt his head to think about it, but he remembered forcing his foot on the brakes right before everything went dark.

      “I was driving,” he said. “And everything just started getting fuzzy. I must’ve passed out.”

      “We noticed some heavy bruising on your throat.” The doctor pointed towards Donny’s neck and frowned.

      “Yeah, I got hit.” said Donny. “Some crazy a*****e with a bat had a bad morning. He got my stomach too.” He pushed against the gown on his stomach, investigating where Drew had landed the first blow.

      “Okay…” Dr. Peck moved to his IV, checking where the nurse had made adjustments. “When was the last time you ate anything?”

      Donny shook his head and said, “I don’t know. A few days maybe.” Peck frowned and picked up the chart again, flipping through the pages. Donny clenched his jaw and felt his face become hot. “Are you gonna tell me what’s going on?” He jerked his arm up and felt the steel cuff dig into the skin on his wrist.

      “Well, you were brought in by the ambulance already cuffed. The on-scene officer felt it necessary because of the smell of alcohol in the car. We ran a blood test which showed trace amounts of alcohol but not enough for inebriation. However, the results showed you were hypoglycemic, which I believe contributed to your loss of consciousness.” Dr. Peck looked at him seriously, but Donny laughed.

      “So what, are you saying I’m diabetic now?” This was turning into the perfect day.

      “No.” said Peck. “I don’t believe so, but you need to eat something. Your medical history shows that you suffered a severe TBI a few years ago. You want to make sure you stay as healthy as possible to dampen any enduring effects.”

      Donny thought it over seriously. It had been a long time since he’d tried to take care of himself.

      “Could that have something to do with the migraines?” he asked. He tried to hide his nervousness. “I can barely think most of the time; it’s torture.”

      “It’s possible, yes.” Dr. Peck put the clipboard back as a knock was heard at the door.

      “Excuse me, Dr. Peck? Is he ready yet?” An officer stood in the doorway in a navy-blue uniform, both hands holding his belt in a sign of victory.

      Peck rolled his eyes and looked at Donny. “I can’t legally disclose the results of your blood test without your consent.”

      Donny nodded with a slight smile. “Sure Doc, whatever you want.” Peck walked out of the room, leading the officer out by the arm. The officer glared at Peck and shot an annoyed look back at Donny, who smiled and waved goodbye to the officer’s back.

      Donny rested back into the bed and tried to relax. He closed his eyes, aware of the cold liquid being seeped into his arm, and thought about the past two days. He thought about Crystal: she was a b***h, but he couldn’t blame her. She’d been handed a raw deal, but he couldn’t figure out why she stayed with Jimmy. He was a mess now, drooling all the time and only able to eat food if it’d been blended up first. He knew all of this second-hand though. After more than a year, he’d never been to see him.

      It was his fault, he thought, his mind back on the night of the accident. The girl had been so young, full of life, that’s what Jimmy wanted. Anything to not go home and face his own life. Donny hated him and blamed him, but he still missed him. He wished he’d been able to slow him down earlier, somehow reached him in time to miss the curve. The girl would still be alive, still smiling, not haunting every moment he closed his eyes.

      Donny sat up again with a decision. He would visit Jimmy. He would settle things between them, if only to help his own conscience. Everything in him knew Jimmy was to blame, but a year of pain and avoidance hadn’t changed anything. He’d go to see him and apologize to Crystal, at least. She deserved better.

      Donny tried to move off the bed, but couldn’t. His wrist tugged at the metal clasp that rattled loudly against the bed railing.

      S**t, he thought, moving his cuffed arm around. There was a commotion behind the door, and Donny expected the Doctor to come back in with the officer. The door opened a crack and he could hear a woman’s voice behind.

      “I am going in to speak with him. He is my son; you’ll have to drag me out of here.” The door flung open and his mother walked in, holding a heavy coat under one arm. She was wearing a frayed white turtleneck and jeans meant for a much younger woman. Her skin sagged and showed the deep lines from age and nicotine. She closed the door and walked over to the bed.

      “Hi sweetheart.” She said, her voice never lifting. It was hard to tell if she was being sincere. “You don’t look too good.”

      “Yeah.” He said, dropping back into the mattress. He held the railing to show the handcuff, hoping she’d get the message that this meeting was under protest. She sat down in a chair next to the bed and looked at him, waiting for one of them to start talking. It won’t be me, he thought.

      “Listen,” she said, slapping her hand on his arm. “I’m having the trailer moved back to the house today.” Donny sat up and glared at her.

      “You gave me two weeks!” he said, trying to keep the volume of his voice controlled. He knew his mother and yelling never worked out.

      “I did.” She said gravely. “That was before I got a call that you were passed out drunk on the road. You could have killed someone Donald.” She stopped herself, trying not to show the shame she felt every day. Donny sighed, understanding but still furious.

      “Not that it matters,” he said finally. “But it had nothing to do with drinking. The doctor just told me.” His mother eyed him suspiciously and shrugged.

      “Either way, they’re picking it up now so you might as well just forget about it.”

      “Who is?” he asked.

      “Artie Harris. I guess he’s the one who found you on the road, passed out, smelling like cheap liquor. He called the police and reached out to me.” She talked approvingly, as if Artie was a gentleman.

      “That goddamned b*****d.” Donny said under his breath. He could picture the smile on Artie’s face when his mother asked him to get the trailer, rendering him homeless.

      “I don’t care for that language, Donald.” She said, rummaging through her purse. She brought out a black cell phone and looked at a message on the bright screen. “Huh…” she said.

      Donny looked at her puzzled. “What?”

      “Artie wants to buy your father’s motorcycle.” She said. The bike had been in his mother’s garage for years. It was a cheap Japanese model made to look like a Harley, with half the power or prestige.

“Does it even still run?” he asked.

“Oh yes; I tried to sell it earlier this year but no one bit. I had the neighbor’s son look at it for me. Artie must’ve seen the For Sale sign. He says he can come pick it up tomorrow.”

For a moment, Donny’s face grew hot, but he relaxed, figuring that in all likelihood, he would never have ridden it anyway.

      “Whatever.” He said with a sigh, and his mother started typing into the phone.

      The door opened and Doctor Peck walked in followed by the officer. His mood was sour, like a kid whose parents had taken away his favorite toy. Peck was barely hiding a look of satisfaction. It was clear he enjoyed ruining the officer’s expectations, hinting at a youth of rigid obedience that never tasted rebellion.

      “The doctor says his tests came back negative for intoxication.” The officer spoke through his teeth. “You’re free to go.”

      “Am I?” asked Donny, holding his arm up as far as the cuff allowed.

      “Right.” He said. He unlocked the cuff and it came off the railing with a loud clatter. “You better stay out of trouble, if you know what’s good for you.” The officer attached the cuffs to his belt and adjusted himself. “There’s plenty of guys that’d love to take you in.”

      “Sure thing, sir.” Donny said, giving a half salute with his freed arm. He heard his mother sigh and suck her teeth.

      “When will it be enough Donald.” She said. He looked at her and tried to remember a time when they were close. She would say her nagging and complaining was her way of showing that she cared.

      After about an hour, Donny was dressed and sitting on the side of the bed. Dr. Peck brought him little sheets of paper for mild painkillers for his neck and ankle. All he cared about were the headaches.

      He walked to the front desk to sign his release papers while his mother looked for a restroom to freshen up before they left. He’d be staying with her, she decided. He figured he’d be able to leave with the trailer as soon as he got his truck from the police impound.

      The receptionist handed him a pen and forms without looking at him: she was eyeing the doors behind him. He could hear a lot of noise and activity -  someone was being brought in on a stretcher. He turned to watch and saw some ER doctors and paramedics huddled together around a woman with red bandages where her face used to be.

      Donny heard bits of their hurried conversation. The words “self-inflicted” and “GSW” broke through the confusion. One doctor shook his head defeated, and he thought he could see another doctor mouth the words “…not gonna make it.”

      The receptionist handed him a piece of paper and he turned to leave. He looked back at the stretcher and caught a glimpse of the top of the woman’s head before they brought her through the hospital doors. Her hair was wet and stained with red, but he could make out the strange color: a stringy mixture of blonde and brunette.

      “No…” he whispered. He tried to run over and confirm his suspicion, but the pain in his ankle flared. He hobbled to the doors they’d all gone through and was about to push them open when a nurse in white and yellow scrubs stopped him.

      “I’m sorry sir, you can’t go in there.” She was young, but her voice was firm.

      “I just need to see who that is.” He said weakly. His head hurt but he didn’t care.

      “Are you a relative?”

      “No, I…” he started. “I just need to know her name. I think she’s a friend of mine. Please.”

      “I’m sorry sir; I can’t disclose any information unless you’re related.”

      “Please…” he said. His voice cracked and he could feel the sting of tears in his eyes. “I just need to know if I did this.”

      The nurse studied his face, and her firm expression changed to sympathy. She walked him over to an empty waiting room chair and sat down next to him.

      “I didn’t see her chart.” The nurse said. “But I believe they said her name was Crystal.”

      Donny’s heart sank. His breath became heavy and hard to control. He could hear the nurse next to him asking if he was alright, but he couldn’t focus. His mind was a whirlwind, trying to understand what he’d just heard.

      “It’s my fault…” he choked out. He put his head in his hands, and started rocking back and forth. The nurse gave up trying to talk to him and quickly walked to the desk. She picked up a phone and called for a Doctor.

      He sat in his rocking fit for a few minutes. It was his mother’s voice that brought him out of it.

      “Donald, get up. We have to go.” She commanded. He looked up at her and saw that she was eyeing the front desk anxiously. The last thing he needed was to be thrown in a padded room, so he stood up and followed his mother out the front doors, limping as he went along.

Reviews

[TMK]

Bikes don't have "steering wheels."
"A man driving by was forced to stop from the piles of broken metal at the scene" ... to stop by ...
She gave him one week. He asked for two weeks.
I think you need to look closely at this section. There are a number of places where the vocabulary choice or phrasing is off. Good writing though.

[Jeremy]

Nice catch on the steering wheel and the weeks bit, I completely overlooked those. Although I tried to make it sound correct, I don't ride motorcycles, so my experience with them is limited to what I've read and seen. Thanks a lot for the feedback!

[TMK]

You're quite welcome. I make mistakes in my writing all the time that, when I find them, make me shake my head and wonder what the hell I was thinking about at the time. We all need another set of eyes on our stuff.