Two black gloves.

Two black gloves.  They are calm and sure.  And deadly.  Or they were.  Two minutes ago.  In the lower level.  Where screams of agony would go unheard and cries for mercy unnoticed.

There is a spot of blood on the left wrist.  It will dry and become a part of the black leather.

In the elevator now.  The right pointer directs it up to the surface.  Now they fold and rest.  And wait for the elevator to glide up a few floors.  Plain beige walls slip by in the windowed box.  Then the atrium appears.  Pink granite floors graced with leafy plants.

The gloves unfold as the elevator dings open.  They swing towards the closest revolving door.

Not a soul left in the building.

Gloves grasp the chilled bar of the door and push.  Turn, turn, turn.  The chillier air greets and the gloves are enveloped into the black of the night.

Quick.

It happened quickly.  That’s what would be said.  After it was over.  It happened so quickly. 

Quick.  Too bad those quick moments won’t ever leave.  Too bad they keep replaying.  But they do.  Quickly.

It was raining.  Pouring, really.  And there was lighting.  In the dark of a sky just past twilight, it looked like the strobe light at a dance party.  Except more erratic. 

Driving in the rain is like asking for something to go wrong.  Especially when driving up a windy hill on a road that’s too narrow.  Already know what’s gonna happen, right?

Sure.

But there’s something to be said of accidents.  People just can’t look away.

Work ran late today.  Hurry home.  In the rain.  Tried to beat the rain.  But outrunning weather is like trying not to hit roadkill.  Pointless.  Messy.  And really bad for the car.

So close to home.  But there’s this section of road that goes up the bluff.  That was never designed for the recent influx of traffic.  That’s dangerous enough when only one car is on it.

This part of the drive is always dreaded.  But it’s so close to home, it hardly matters.  Already thoughts of what’s going on at home.  Dinner cooking.  Favorite TV shows to watch after.  A glass of wine and a cozy blanket. 

The song on the radio lulls senses into false security.  The car turns and begins the ascent it won’t finish.  Singing along loudly to the radio.  Drowning out the patter of rain.  Ignoring the bright flashes of the storm.  And trying to ignore the stark light of the oncoming cars. 

Then there’s a pair of lights that’s coming too close.  That’s in the wrong lane.  That’s-

When this part replays, it’s still fuzzy.  Except for the churning stomach.  And the shock that courses through every nerve ending.

There’s a rushing feeling.  And hardness. That’s the glass and steering wheel.  But is the rushing rain or blood?   It’s hard to tell. 

Lights are still flashing.  They soon become red and blue. 

It happened so quickly.