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My hands fumbled uselessly at the roof of the trunk, finding nothing, trying not to get hopeless, trying not to realize that not all cars had the pull. Old cars didn't. That was why the law was passed. Little kids suffocating to death.
I choked back the cry that formed in the back of my throat, hands feeling at the sides, at the door itself, unwilling to give up.
There's more than one way out of a trunk, Uncle Malc's voice broke through my frantic, scrambling thoughts. Back seats fold forward.
I flew to the front of the trunk, slamming my feet out to brace myself as my hands sought the pull with a feeling of a full-body sigh as it folded forward.
I could move out, throw the door open, and fall out into the road before they could get me.
There was still a chance.
Seat flat, I threw my upper body forward through the opening, blood pulsing wildly through my temples, wrists, throat, making my very familiar body feel oddly foreign as my hands grabbed the back of the seat to drag myself forward.
"Bitch has a will," a deep, chilling voice said. And all I could think was Close. Too close. "Gonna be fun to break her of that," he added before a pain exploded across the tops of my hands, cracking into my knuckles with the crushing sensation of breaking. A cry ripped from within me, a sound I hated hearing, hated giving to them, but couldn't manage to keep in as I snatched my hands back, finding them shaking even as the metal bar he'd used to whack them swung back up, and slammed back down with awful, black, unconsciousness.
When I woke up again, I was back in the trunk, the back seat closing me in complete darkness.
"Ow," I whimpered, raising my hand to my head where it was slamming with an intensity that made my eyes hurt. My fingers, sore and weak themselves, met the side of my head, coming back wet and sticky.
Blood.
Even as the thought formed, I could smell it. Metallic and primal, a scent I knew as well as anyone could, having smelled my own more times than I could count when I caught a fist to the nose, lip, ear. When I landed on something that forced holes into my arms, knees, hands.
My training hadn't been about the gi, padded floors, and instructors who came at you with a fifth their real force, terrified of lawsuits.
Everything I had learned had been raw and real life. Every bruise I got came from an adult who loved me, every bloody nose from an aunt or uncle who knew that training was useless if it didn't teach you to be able to think and act through actual pain, every split lip from a trained adult who knew I needed to become intimately acquainted with the feel, taste, and smell of my own blood.
Cry if you have to, Lenny told me - not quite an aunt yet, though we all knew that was coming - but get up and fight.
I pulled in a ragged, shuddering breath, trying to clear my mind to focus, trying to think of the next move.
But my stomach pitched, making me turn on my side just fast enough to throw up into the corner of the trunk.
Headache.
Nausea.
Head injury.
Concussion.
I had a concussion.
I spat the saliva and bad taste out of my mouth, trying to move away from the corner, trying to keep consciousness as my brain started to swim, as my vision kept blanking in and out, stealing seconds, minutes, I didn't know how long.
I reminded myself that the thing about not falling asleep was - mostly - fictional, something fun to throw into movies for dramatic effect.
Mostly though.
Sometimes, the concussion was bad enough that you shouldn't sleep.
Because there was a good chance that you might not wake up, that you could pass out, choke on your own vomit, and never wake again.
Even as the thought occurred to me, I could feel the car slowing. Nothing unusual. Even criminals - maybe especially criminals - needed to abide stop signs and red lights.
But this time, it didn't charge forward after a moment.
No.
The engine cut, making me aware of the constant vibration that had accompanied it while it had been on.
There was another pause as my heartbeat skittered into overdrive, making adrenaline surge through my body as a door slammed. Then another. As male voices got closer, as they laughed from outside the trunk.
As a key was jammed into the lock.
As the door started to lift.
And I thought a thought then I never thought someone like me - so fearless, so ambitious, so full of drive, of ambitions, of, well, life - would.
Maybe I'd prefer it if the concussion killed me.TWOReignThe car - sleek, black, long, flawless, the kind of car Repo would have wet dreams about, came to a screeching halt after pressing into the gates enough to bend the metal slightly inward, making me think a thought I would later chasten myself for.
