fault

1

I can almost hear my heart pounding. I lean my head against his back. I can hear his too.

The city rushes by, cascaded in soft sunlight. The street is packed. On every lane, vehicles zip by at concerningly high speeds in light of how little distance is between them. It seems, though, somehow, that I'm standing still while everything else around me appears to be perpetually fast-paced. But it's comforting. It's peaceful. The noise fades. I love it.

I cling onto Waylen, my fingers loosely intertwined in front of his waist. My heart has conjoined with his into one, and it feels safe there. I move my left thumb to my ring finger. I still can't help but be surprised that each time I do, my thumb is met with a small stone. I can see its brilliance without looking, and my soul longs for his despite how close we are.

The wind blows my hair across my face. I leave the mask on the helmet open and rest my chin on his shoulder instead. He glances at me with a shy smile, then quickly redirects his attention back to the freeway.

A few moments pass, and he speaks. The carefree spirit I had picked up earlier has disappeared. His voice is pensive.

"Elise."

"Hm?"

"Is your helmet tightened?"

"Yeah."

Chills run down my spine. His arms are tense, his eyes flickering around him.

"Hold onto my shoulders," he says starkly.

"What?"

"Trust me, please."

And so I do. I don't ask any more questions. He's definitely very meditative at the moment. Later. I'll ask later, when his attention isn't divided between driving.

I glance at the rear-view mirror over his shoulder. An unwashed white truck in the next lane over merges behind us. I start to look away but I notice how unstable the truck's movements are. It moves side to side, barely staying within the lines.

"Waylen, I think that's a drunk driver behind us."

He glances at the mirror for a fraction of a second.

"I know."

We pass an exit. As we continue further and I watch that divergence fall further behind, part of me longs for it, but I kept telling myself it was too late to say something, until it was actually too late to say something.

The truck continues to meander around the lane. The brittleness and sloppiness of its movements would make it seem it was driving on an unfinished dirt road, and not the well-paved highway that it was actually traveling. Youthful laughter floats out the open windows, as an obvious minor pokes his head out of the passenger seat window, pumps his fist in the air, and cheers. To my horror, the driver proceeds to do the same, before frantically maneuvering the truck back onto its route. The truck's speed fluctuates, as if the driver had forgotten which pedal was which. Someone honks. Someone else shouts curse words. My grip on his shoulders tightens.

The next exit is miles away. There's nowhere to go. The truck speeds up and doesn't stop this time. I can feel its presence looming behind me, and dare not to turn around. The truck engulfs almost the entire view in the mirror. I can even begin to make out the features of the two adolescents in the car, just looking at the reflection.

"Waylen. . ."

"Don't worry, Elise." He reaches up and pulls his face shield shut.

The driver continues to speed up. I close my eyes and brace for impact. I mumble a prayer, asking for tranquility, for hope, for those stupid kids behind us. I've erased all worry from my mind. My grip on his shoulders loosens.

At the moment I expect the car to hit me, Waylen veers a sharp right, the rubber on the wheels screeching against the pavement. I lift my eyelids in time to see him flying out of my hands, crashing into the windshield of the truck, with such impact that the glass shatters. Avoiding the crash, the cars behind us diverge, skidding violently to the sides. The truck driver continues forward, and Waylen bounces off the hood and slams to the ground beside the truck. On impact, the motorcycle rotates a bit counterclockwise, and, now unbalanced without its driver, wobbles a little and tilts over. I stick out my arm and break my fall with almost no impact.

Of the nearby vehicles, most continue on, a few pull over, and two cars park behind the site diagonally. From those that have stopped, individuals scramble out and begin to shout at each other, maybe to me, though I can hardly concentrate on any of the words they're saying. The words collide into each other and jumble into a long phrase of ambiguity that I don't even begin to try to process. It's all just noise. Someone calls 911. Someone yells out the license plate number of the truck.

Pushing the motorcycle off of my body, I can't hear anything else besides my heart pounding in my chest. The roaring of the vehicles on the street dies down, in part to the slowing of traffic, and in part to the apprehension consuming my senses. The truck continued on, seemingly unaware of what had just happened. Its windshield is shattered, though. It won't get far. I pull off my jacket and take off my helmet while sprinting to the spot where he lay. Upon sight, tears immediately spill out of my eyes. A trail of blood leaks out of his helmet and has begun to pool. 

With the shelter of the two cars redirecting traffic, I don't think twice before dropping to my knees. I push his face shield up. 

"Are you okay, Elise?" The first words he utters as soon as I do.

Tears stream down my face. 

"Yeah." I run the back of my wrist across my eyes. "Yes, I'm okay." 

"That's good, then," he murmurs. 

After carefully placing my jacket to support his neck, I pull my sleeve over my hand and brush away some of the shards of glass.

"Why did you do that?" 

"Only one of us needed to get hit." His eyes are only half open. "Worst case scenario, I get to see God a bit sooner," he whispers.

I almost say that I'm so lucky to have him but I hold my tongue. My heart aches. Trembling, I reach for his hands and clutch them tightly, rubbing my fingers over his knuckles. Whispered prayers fall out of my lips before I can even think of the words passing through them. 

The strength in his hands subsides as they grow cold. Panic and dread begin to manifest, but his pulse remains, and one more sentence emerges from Waylen's lips.

"I'll see you again." 

As blaring sirens near, I suddenly notice how silent it had been until then. No one was shouting anymore. A few people stood uncomfortably, scattered nearby but at enough of a distance. They didn't seem to have any idea what to do. 

Paramedics came rushing in. Waylen was lifted onto a stretcher and carted into the back of an ambulance. I followed in absent-mindedly. Despite all the frenzy, my soul stood still, once again.