The hammer came back down on the Tiger’s chest, and Jack Pappen was dead.
The corpse was regarded for a long, long moment. Distantly, some societal pang howled at her numb mind. She should feel guilt, there should be some sensation other than the absolute absence of any emotion towards this life she had just taken. She hunkered down, and pulled out the dead cop's wallet, and his keychain. The cash she pocketed, the rest of the wallet was stuffed back into his pocket. She curled her fingers around the keychain with a smile.
“It’s just you and me now Babe. Jack’s dead. Let’s turn some miles, yeah?” Her legs uncurled beneath her as she rose up to a stand, walked over to that car door, her fingers hesitated for just a moment, as if the door handle would shock her, if she made contact. When her fingers did touch the metal it felt right, as if it were meant to be. She opened that door up, tossing her bag onto the passenger seat, her hammer set in the passenger wheel well, and once those were settled, she slid herself down onto the leather drivers seat. The interior of that Mach 1 was dark, done in black leather with the Ford Pony highlights, her fingers lit upon the wood and metal shifting knob, letting her digits dance over the marked out five speeds and little R indicating where reverse was in the gearbox.
The memory of that noisome din Jack had been listening to as he pulled in was not lost on her. The eject button of the cassette deck was mashed and the refuse it regurgitated was tossed into the back seat. Her fingers swung that dial to a familiar number, that task seen too, she slid the key home into the oiled tumblers of the ignition switch and turned the car over. From this position, behind the wheel, the growl of the yellow and black beast she occupied was welcoming. Her fingers reached down and tugged the headlight switch, and with that simple gesture the beast opened her eyes, casting Jack’s body in the car’s illuminating gaze.
“He’s dead.” The girl whispered out past the sharp triangles of her teeth. “He can’t hurt us anymore, or anyone, ever again.”
I want to be able to write like that again. To be able to catch little details, and visceral moments. I want to be able to convey the feeling of things once again, and not merely be mired in my own boiling emotions and cavalcade of trauma purveyed by living through the avarice fuelled death of a capitalist empire.
The corpse was regarded for a long, long moment. Distantly, some societal pang howled at her numb mind. She should feel guilt, there should be some sensation other than the absolute absence of any emotion towards this life she had just taken. She hunkered down, and pulled out the dead cop's wallet, and his keychain. The cash she pocketed, the rest of the wallet was stuffed back into his pocket. She curled her fingers around the keychain with a smile.
“It’s just you and me now Babe. Jack’s dead. Let’s turn some miles, yeah?” Her legs uncurled beneath her as she rose up to a stand, walked over to that car door, her fingers hesitated for just a moment, as if the door handle would shock her, if she made contact. When her fingers did touch the metal it felt right, as if it were meant to be. She opened that door up, tossing her bag onto the passenger seat, her hammer set in the passenger wheel well, and once those were settled, she slid herself down onto the leather drivers seat. The interior of that Mach 1 was dark, done in black leather with the Ford Pony highlights, her fingers lit upon the wood and metal shifting knob, letting her digits dance over the marked out five speeds and little R indicating where reverse was in the gearbox.
The memory of that noisome din Jack had been listening to as he pulled in was not lost on her. The eject button of the cassette deck was mashed and the refuse it regurgitated was tossed into the back seat. Her fingers swung that dial to a familiar number, that task seen too, she slid the key home into the oiled tumblers of the ignition switch and turned the car over. From this position, behind the wheel, the growl of the yellow and black beast she occupied was welcoming. Her fingers reached down and tugged the headlight switch, and with that simple gesture the beast opened her eyes, casting Jack’s body in the car’s illuminating gaze.
“He’s dead.” The girl whispered out past the sharp triangles of her teeth. “He can’t hurt us anymore, or anyone, ever again.”
I want to be able to write like that again. To be able to catch little details, and visceral moments. I want to be able to convey the feeling of things once again, and not merely be mired in my own boiling emotions and cavalcade of trauma purveyed by living through the avarice fuelled death of a capitalist empire.