[Dec 3] [Original] Met at the Crossroads
Title: Met at the Crossroads
Day/Theme: 3) I appeal to your scratches and your tattered fur
Series: Original
Character/Pairing: The Biker
Rating: PG
The Biker remembered the crash in flashes. The Dog had been there, he was sure of that. Had it caused the crash? He wasn’t sure. He hadn’t swerved. He had been going straight in the dark, the summer heat flowing over him like a black river.
It had happened fast. He had passed the crossroads and had been given a heartbeat to register the sight of the huge black dog standing in the lane before the world had exploded into halogen-bright pain. He imagined that it was like being struck by lightning, the blinding blaze of light, the impact, and the burning.
Where had the truck come from? It had hit him on the right, the 5:00 angle, when there was nothing on that side but a field. It was as if God had thrown the truck at him. What had the other driver done to deserve that? That poor bastard had died. After hitting him, the truck had somersaulted into the grove of locust trees on the left of the road and gone up in flames.
The Biker remembered a patchwork blur of sensations. The asphalt under his cheek had been warm. His mouth and nose were clogged with blood, and the vision in the eye closest to the ground was going red. Through that haze, as his stunned mind fumbled for any grip on what had happened, the Dog had approached him. It was enormous, easily big as a mastiff. Maybe bigger. As dazed and near death as he had been, he had still been afraid of it.
The next year and a half was another haze, a white one this time, of hospitals and doctors and bitter, frightened helplessness. He had been told he was lucky to be alive, told he would never walk again, told that the trucking company had agreed to pay for everything, told it hadn’t been his fault. He hadn’t been told why. Or how.
And now, three years later, the Dog was back. Every time he saw it, he felt the way he had that night, that same horrible, weightless collision of the unknown into his mortal life. He was afraid to talk to it. Holy God, what if it answered? What did it want? Was it a guardian angel as the doctors had all said he must’ve have had? Had it kept him from dying on that road until the burning truck caught some eyes and brought help? Was it a harbinger of death, keeping a careful eye on him since he had escaped once already?
It sat there and watched him with red eyes. In the movies, nothing good had red eyes. It was as zigzagged with scars as he was. Was it some symbolic manifestation of his own injuries? Was is just something that he remembered from before the crash, that his battered brain had latched on to and kept, a figment of his imagination, driving him even crazier?
The Biker raised his head and looked at the Dog. It looked back, unreadable red eyes never wavering. The Biker didn’t want to speak to it. If he started that, the line would be crossed, and how long would it be before he was screaming like a madman at something no one else could see? He hung his head again, taking deep breaths. When he looked up again, it had gotten up and either walked or rematerialized over to him. Its head was barely two inches from his knee. It looked up into his face, unblinking, not touching him.
No more of this, The Biker thought, fear rising in his throat like vomit. His head was spinning being this close to it. Get it over with.
“Hey,” he said, and the last thing he saw before he passed out was the thing’s tail wag once.
Day/Theme: 3) I appeal to your scratches and your tattered fur
Series: Original
Character/Pairing: The Biker
Rating: PG
The Biker remembered the crash in flashes. The Dog had been there, he was sure of that. Had it caused the crash? He wasn’t sure. He hadn’t swerved. He had been going straight in the dark, the summer heat flowing over him like a black river.
It had happened fast. He had passed the crossroads and had been given a heartbeat to register the sight of the huge black dog standing in the lane before the world had exploded into halogen-bright pain. He imagined that it was like being struck by lightning, the blinding blaze of light, the impact, and the burning.
Where had the truck come from? It had hit him on the right, the 5:00 angle, when there was nothing on that side but a field. It was as if God had thrown the truck at him. What had the other driver done to deserve that? That poor bastard had died. After hitting him, the truck had somersaulted into the grove of locust trees on the left of the road and gone up in flames.
The Biker remembered a patchwork blur of sensations. The asphalt under his cheek had been warm. His mouth and nose were clogged with blood, and the vision in the eye closest to the ground was going red. Through that haze, as his stunned mind fumbled for any grip on what had happened, the Dog had approached him. It was enormous, easily big as a mastiff. Maybe bigger. As dazed and near death as he had been, he had still been afraid of it.
The next year and a half was another haze, a white one this time, of hospitals and doctors and bitter, frightened helplessness. He had been told he was lucky to be alive, told he would never walk again, told that the trucking company had agreed to pay for everything, told it hadn’t been his fault. He hadn’t been told why. Or how.
And now, three years later, the Dog was back. Every time he saw it, he felt the way he had that night, that same horrible, weightless collision of the unknown into his mortal life. He was afraid to talk to it. Holy God, what if it answered? What did it want? Was it a guardian angel as the doctors had all said he must’ve have had? Had it kept him from dying on that road until the burning truck caught some eyes and brought help? Was it a harbinger of death, keeping a careful eye on him since he had escaped once already?
It sat there and watched him with red eyes. In the movies, nothing good had red eyes. It was as zigzagged with scars as he was. Was it some symbolic manifestation of his own injuries? Was is just something that he remembered from before the crash, that his battered brain had latched on to and kept, a figment of his imagination, driving him even crazier?
The Biker raised his head and looked at the Dog. It looked back, unreadable red eyes never wavering. The Biker didn’t want to speak to it. If he started that, the line would be crossed, and how long would it be before he was screaming like a madman at something no one else could see? He hung his head again, taking deep breaths. When he looked up again, it had gotten up and either walked or rematerialized over to him. Its head was barely two inches from his knee. It looked up into his face, unblinking, not touching him.
No more of this, The Biker thought, fear rising in his throat like vomit. His head was spinning being this close to it. Get it over with.
“Hey,” he said, and the last thing he saw before he passed out was the thing’s tail wag once.