#drowningcure

It would always be his fault.

It was his concentration that had slipped, too caught up in the moment, watching her with her shoulders lent out the car window, laughing at way her hair was blowing wildly as he took the car faster. God knows what speed they were doing.

Foot on the gas, hand on the wheel but no eyes on the road.

It was supposed to be a treat, a joyride - Jack had scoffed at his penchant for ripping down open highways with a laugh, “It’s not a race! Both hands on the wheels” but he had never approved of his baby girl sticking her head out the window, prosthetic hand reaching back to wind up the handle the moment she so much as got her nose out the window.

Jack had left her in his care, a meeting, an appointment? He couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter. He was only trying to make her happy. One hand on the steering wheel. One hand at her forearm, keeping her with the car. Not that she’d fall out anyway, he’d told himself. She said the wind on her face had felt nice. It made her laugh. She’d been happy. It was all he wanted to do. They’d been happy.

Eyes. Not. On. The. Road.

No airbags. No crumple zone. No time to react. The truck hits her side of the car with a noise that doesn’t register against the ringing in his ears. He wakes up to the same high pitched noise, vision slowly clearing, panic not hitting when he realizes he’s upside down but when he sees her unmoving figure, already pulled from the open window. Theres someone calling to him from the outside, bashing at his window but all he sees is blood. The trail of it that leads to her, 10- maybe 20 meters from the car and it’s fresh and it’s slick but she’s not moving.

Oh god she’s not moving.

His throat is raw, whats left of his voice still calling to her as they manage to pull him out, back searing against the hot cement.