#scribbling

You should have spent more time with your family. You think of them; of the barbecues— burnt hotdogs and lively laughter. The shuffle of cards when it got dark, smoke curling in the air as Hennessy kept them warm.

You should have kissed Ben Quinn in the tenth grade. The bottle landed on you. He had been willing.

You should have moved to Oregon with that plastic surgeon, he had promised to keep you pretty as long as you promised to be his.

Your mind spins, focusing on everything and nothing all at once. You should've listened to Amy, should've spent your day off in bed instead of playing savior to your best friend. You're gonna die. Bull horn through your chest, your head crushed under a half ton of hooves like a watermelon on a hydraulic press. You wonder if the Surgeon would come to your funeral, let his last act of love be reconstructing your face into something recognizable. Something prettier than before that'd make your mama and aunties cry and Ben Quinn regret never kissing you.

Then your thoughts shudder, a simple statement forming in your mind. ‘You can't let this farm take another person from Amy.’ The accident had already taken her husband, taken him only a few months before the birth of their first child, and had nearly taken Amy in the grief that followed. Then there were the insurance agents, state investigators, and god, the real estate agents— the farm had nearly crumbled from the weight of it. But, with the help from friends, family, and the gofundme made in Teddy's honor, Amy was able to rebuild the farm, to tear down those gas tanks, and get the land serviced. Amy was just starting to be a person again. You couldn't die on her now.

“Hey!” Someone yells, their voice as panicked as you feel. Your head clears just enough to realize you've been running towards a fence, a rail fence that only comes up to about your chest. A man is on the other side of it, his hands waving frantically above his head, his face twisted in fear and you can make out his watery eyes darting to you and then the monster behind you. You push yourself to run faster, your ankle screaming in protest. You feel like you can feel the hot breath of the bull on your neck. You're sure you're crying, sobbing, spit and snot running down your face. The fence is closer now and you can see the man clearer now, his wide eyes are blue, his face flushing and then somehow paling repeatedly, his hair is brown, curled at his neck and he's shouting—

“Jump the fence!”

You don't think—you just do as you're told. Your knees bend, and you leap, your feet ding against the metal of the fence, and for several heart-pounding seconds, you're floating. The bull rears before it can crash into the fence, hooves stamping as it turns and kicks at the air, frustrated it didn't get the chance to gore you before dashing off back from where it came. You don't see this, of course, because in the leap over the fence, your elbow met the face of the random man, your knees half dug into his gut as you dry heave and he groans in pain. You manage to pull yourself off of him, rolling to the side and curling into a near fetal position in the grass, whimpering with your eyes shut tight.

“Are you–” He shifts, groaning. He sits up, one hand on his nose, his voice slightly muffled as he leans to look at you. “Are you okay?”

How do you even answer that when you just saw your life flash before your eyes? When you saw your death and it was bull shaped? You offer the man another whimper, which makes him grunt in response. There's more shifting, then he presses a cool hand against the side of your neck. When you flinch in response, he draws his hand back quickly, “Do you know where you are?”

The question makes you open your eyes, squinting slightly as the sun threatens to blind you. The man sees this— he's managed to shift himself in front of you— and he moves until he's blocking the sun completely. You blink twice, taking a ragged breath, “I almost died.”

His lips thin, but he doesn't agree nor disagree. His blue eyes dart across your figure, assessing. His gaze lingers on your feet, your swollen ankle, a knot in his brow forming. “Remember that word, okay? Almost. You almost died, but you just outran a full-grown bull. Not a lot of people can do that.”

It pulls a laugh out of you. It sounds slightly hysterical, but it feels like it's enough to slow your heart. You push yourself up to a sitting position with shaking hands, the man backing up just enough to allow you to do so, but his hands twitch at his sides like he wants to help you. “Fuck.” You say, “Amy– Amy is gonna kill me, I'm going to kill her. I told her to keep the animals locked up when I'm here!”

The man blinks, “You know Amy?”

Your head jerks to him, your mouth opening, closing, then opening again. “Duh. Why else would I be here–?” There's a look forming on the man's face, his lips pinching together and his eyebrows rising as if to say; ‘well…’ The anger that blooms in your chest is quick, sharp— you try to push yourself up to stand but you start to stumble, hissing both in pain and in annoyance when the man stands just as fast to steady you with a panicked noise, a hand on your forearm.

“You– you really shouldn't be standing right now, I think you have a twisted ankle or worse–” He starts, but you're already snatching your arm back.

“I'm fine.” You snap, ignoring how your body aches in rebuttal. You stand straight, leaning more on one leg than the other, nausea rolling in your stomach as you bring your arm to quickly wipe at the already drying mess that's your face. You pat your pockets, and thank god, you still have your phone. You shoot the man a steely look that has him taking a step back in surprise. Quicker than you should, you pull your phone from your pocket and snap a photo of his face, flash, and all.

“Hey—?”

You ignore him and unlock your phone with your face ID, sending the photo to Amy. You send, ‘???’ For good measure.

The man shifts in front of you, his face now red, and he looks vaguely uncomfortable. “Um–?”

Amy reacts to the photo with a laughing emoji. The dots appear, then disappear, and then appear again. ‘lol, thats Dennis! y is this photo so close up???’

Your eyes snap back to the man— to Dennis, shifting restlessly, his thumbs hooked on the loops of his jeans. Your brows furrow in disbelief, “You're Dennis?”

It makes him jump, “Uh, yeah?”

“The doctor?” You continue, voice pitched in disbelief.

Dennis frowns, his head tilting. “Last time I checked, yeah.”

You huff, baffled. “Okay, okay.” Your phone buzzes in your hand, your ringtone loud, and you answer it fast, the anger that was ebbing away bubbling back up at the sight of Amy's smiling face. “Amy.”

Her smile falters, hazel eyes taking you in and then widening in shock, maybe fear. “Are you okay?”

“No.” You snap, voice reedy. Your ankle throbs again like it's agreeing with you. “Amy, I was just chased by a fucking cow! You promised me you'd lock them up when I'm here!”

Her face has fully dropped, her cheeks flushing a bright red. She shifts, the phone moving lower as she switches hands. You see a flash of the baby pressed against her side as she shakily pushes hair from her face with her free hand. “I did– I thought I did–”

Dennis coughs, you look at him and he winces. “So, that may have been me–”

“What?”

He rushes to continue, “In my defense! I didn't even know you were out there! Amy called me and asked if I could check in the animals if I had the time and–”

Amy makes a noise through the phone, “Dennis.”

“Literally, no one is ever here when I'm here!” He says, leaning close to the phone so Amy can see him. For a moment, you think that he might take it from you, and your fingers tighten around the device, but Dennis doesn't try to do that. He only leans closer like your personal space is his. “You know I always let the animals roam while I'm here, Amy. I didn't know.”

Amy blows a breath, taking a moment to gather her thoughts. “Right, okay. So maybe I fucked up–” Your mouth opens to agree, to say ‘no, duh.’ But Amy continues, “I'm sorry guys, I should have told you both about the other being there.” She's not looking at you anymore but at Dennis. He's still in your space, close enough you can feel his body heat against your back. “Is she okay? Are you okay? Your nose looks…”

“I'm fine.” Dennis answers. He waves a dismissive hand, but then his eyes dart to you in concern. “Her on the other hand… twisted ankle, maybe. I thought she was in shock for a second, but it's clear she's not.”

You blink, offended. Should you be offended? You tilt the phone away from Dennis, shaking your head. “I'm– I'm fine. It's definitely twisted, not broken. I know how to take care of it.”

Amy says your name in that disappointed mom tone she's managed to master over the last six months. “You should let Dennis look at it. He literally works in an ER. He does that for a living, and he's right there.”

You make a face, and Amy makes it right back at you. “Fine. But only because it saves me from like an eight grand bill.”

That makes the both of them smile, though Dennis’ smile fades quickly with a wince, a finger raising to prod at his nose. When you look at him again, his hand drops and he gives you a crooked smile, “Not broken, just sore.”

Amy's eyes seem to shine, “Alright, call me if anything happens, okay? The spare key is in the same spot as always. Bye, have fun!”

The call clicks off, leaving you staring blankly at Amy's profile picture. What was fun about any of this? Did the fact that you nearly died go in one ear and out the next? You know she's been a little different since the accident but Jesus. You turn your phone off and shove the device back into your pocket, turning to fully face Dennis and pretending not to see how his body jerks into motion as if to catch you when your leg nearly gives out from your own weight.