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.

Flash Fiction 6

The first time it hurt. The second time was just confusing. The third, well, by then I was getting used to losing myself.

Rage-ometrics. A half joke and half-truth, neither part amusing or factual. My partner used to say that I was more emotion than woman. Not so much human and much more whirlwind of interpersonal destruction.

He was not wrong, but neither was he kind. That friendship would end badly with one of us wielding an ice pick with intention to harm. Telling you which was which would paint an unfair advantage for the other, so I will not reveal it at this time.

It was never my intention to become super human. Here the prefix “super” is defined very strictly by its Latin origins. Above and beyond. More than. Not just a woman anymore. Too many bits to be quite normal.

Once I knew I was no longer like everyone else though, I wore it with style. There are things you don’t let yourself do when you want to blend it. Haircuts that are shied away from. Leather jackets unbought. Body parts unpierced and untattooed. Once I knew I wasn’t normal, I let it all go. I took up three bad habits, but dropped two of them because hard drugs and sex with strangers wasn’t as much fun as I predicted.

I kept the cigarettes.

My partner always used to say I kept the masses nice and safe and ignorant while shielding them from the truth. Never mind that I stopped mass genocide, he had to fixate on the lie. The harm done by untelling.

He always was a cynic, and arrogant to boot. Hypocrite. I was taking on the sins of humanity, not him. It wasn’t him risking his neck. Unkind. As I said. I almost feel bad for going after him with that ice pick. (And here I said I wasn’t going to tell that story.)

In the end though, hollowing myself out was always the hardest part. As much as he made me crazy, he always called me back. Without him, it became harder to hold on to the me-ness. I started wanting to break things all the time, and not just the things I was supposed to break.

But it’s okay, because it wasn’t long after that I discovered the way to keep doing the indispensable task that was eating away at me. This is a universal trick that will surely help not just the above and beyond humans like myself (saving the world one batch of unfelt emotions at a time) but the ignorant masses as well. As such, I will reveal it here.

Every person has the ability to sacrifice ourselves for the greater good, the selfishness to resist, and the good sense to pick when and where we make our final stand. Pick the hill you die on with care. The one I chose is filled with pests and weevils and ingrates. The only reason I don’t abandon it is because I love it so terribly much.

Every time I go, I get a little closer to losing myself, but every time I return I remember why I can’t. Rage-ometrics. Not funny. Not true. But me. At least, for as long as I can hang onto it.