Book #2 of Girl of Mine ✑
1957. It's the things you thought were yours. It's the lack of control and how you ought to make the most of what you have. Love for yourself or passed loves. There isn't a way to take hold of carried feelings, the actions...
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* chapter music * — Trying to get to you — Elvis Presley, the original track released in 1956.
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Rosalie POV
The 20th of August, 1957
⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ◌ «Red, I'm not coming home without Sal.» ◌ *ೃ༄
Chemicals. It all smelled like chemicals. Seeping tunes of Elvis went in and out with me—it was so quiet, yet so loud. Pouring water streamed from both sides of the car, dripping down from the edges of where the ripped-off car doors should have been.
The pressure beneath my chest kept pushing, as if wanting out. Breathing, it didn't feel like me—the sounds didn't sound like me. Skewed and blurry, I tried turning my heavy head—oddly feeling as though it held my whole body. Gazing, what was up was, in reality, down. Getting a clear view, as I adjusted my sight, it was as though the world was upside down, with my eyes trailing a long stretching path of grey, white, and yellow where the sky should have been. Gripping, the need to cough took me, and a feeling of pain went through me as I did. The insides of my mouth hurt. Wanting to cover my mouth with my hands, to somehow numb the pain, I realized they hung down past my head. Tilting my chin by stretching my throat to take a look, my palms lay lifelessly against the roof at the end of my arms.
The more I saw, the more I understood that the car had flipped, and I hung by the seat belt—strapped in place. At the roof's curved surface, I saw the little white square with the doodled middle finger Elvis had drawn.
The next second, white harsh light came upon me from afar, making me squint my eyes and turn my head towards the source. «Heh...» I tried speaking, but my tongue was numb, and I didn't have enough air for my words to break through more than my thoughts. Yet, to understand it all, I still got that I needed help.
The light source moved up and down, letting me get glimpses of sight that weren't blinding me. A figure, a silhouette, on two legs, came over in fast and long strides—swinging his flashlight as he went. Again, I tried calling for help—but I had no strength. Nothing really hurt, just my tongue, but I felt immobile.
Following every move of the approaching person, their steps seemed heavy. And the slightly bluer shade beyond the silhouette made him stand out. He wore pants, seemed broader at the top and slimmer as my sight reached his legs and shoes.
Then he stopped—and his flashlight moved directly into my eyes and facial features. «He.. hello.» I tried to speak with my voice hoarse and lips wet as I challenged them. The man bent, and I thought I could see broad cheekbones, slender cheeks, and a prominent chin. He looked straight at me, but I could only make out parts of him in the night dark. Blinking, I tried holding my eyes up as he shone on me; the overwhelming flash cast an unbreakable shield.
