Bittersweet Revenge

Hey my fantastic Quibblonians!
So the idea for this story just popped randomly into my head. I'm not quite sure where it's headed yet, so bear with me, guys!
I really would appreciate if you could comment, it'd mean a lot to me.
At least rate honestly! I need constructive criticism, so feel free to pick faults within reason.
Thanks so much for taking the time to read this!
❤ Scarlett

Chapter 2

That's not what happened

Ever watched those seemingly funny YouTube videos where a person gets literally thrown by a car, only to get up a few seconds later, apparently unharmed, if not a little shaken?
That’s not what happened to Daniel.
I’ll admit, he did fly. He soared actually. But cruel, uncaring gravity is a heartless b#$%ch and he met the ground before the first of countless screams left my throat.
I watched as the scene unfolded, and as I recount it, I can’t stop the tears coming. Can’t quench the self-hate and inner loathing.
He reached the crossing, and, in his excitement, without looking left and right, he began to run across the road. He never made it.
The car, a white Pajero, its numberplate, 124JIH, had met him halfway, its bull bar coming into contact with his chest, sending him flying. He hit the road with a sickening crunch and all the breath in my body deserted me. Someone screamed, a blood curdling, horrific scream that would strike terror into even the bravest hearts.
Later, I realised it was me who was screaming.
I’d reached him before I realised I’d moved. The bike I had previously been wheeling was only just beginning to fall when I crouched at his side, hoping stupidly that he'd get up and be alright. “Daniel.” I whispered, hoarsely. “Daniel! Please…”
We all laugh at those movies where a person is dying, and their friend says something stupid, like, “Can you hear me? Talk to me. Please….you can’t die.” I used to, until I said the very same words, over and over.
Waiting, for…anything really. A breath. A word. Waiting for a sign. A sign that never came.
Blood seeping from his fractured skull, gravel imbedded in his tiny hands and face. When I shut my eyes, this is what I see. And people wonder why I have trouble sleeping now days. Go figure.
He didn’t breathe again, but his eyes…they were open. Wide and staring, they flicked over me
His little schoolbag had been tossed, its contents flung up into the gusty air. And as his eyes finally closed, the production invitation, which may as well have been a death warrant, fluttered softly down, landing on his tiny chest.

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