RED & BLUE / just a little drabble about deb escaping in the car
HER HANDS ARE GLUED TO THE STEERING WHEEL WITH BLOOD AS THE ADHESIVE. it’s dry and cracking and sticky and it isn’t hers. but the blood on her face is hers and it’s wet. it’s dripping and running out of the gash from the handle of an axe that was slammed into the back of her head one, two, three times. it’s smeared over the headrest of the leather seat. it’s smeared on the side window from where she was pulled out of the truck.
it’s hard to see the road. it’s dark and only one headlight on the old truck works. the other one had buggzy’s head smashed into it. it’s cracked just like her glasses. there’s blood dripping into her eyes, sticking to her lashes. she wants to close them ... or peel away her hand to wipe the blood, but she can’t. every time her eyes shut in a slow blink she sees JASON VOORHEES standing in front of the car, holding buggzy’s decapitated head in one hand and an axe ready to reap her own in the other.
the first time, she’d slammed on the brakes. her hand had hovered over the gear shift to put the truck in reverse. she actually thought he was real. he’d stopped the car once with his bare hands. she half-expects the real jason to inexplicably appear in the middle of the road again ... for her apparent escape to be just another FALSE HOPE, just like calling over the radio, just like calling the police, just like repairing the boat. it would be a fitting end to the undeserving final girl of the massacre at camp crystal lake ... the rug ripped out from under her when she’s right on the cusp of salvation.
her eyes burn. the uncomfortable feeling of trickling blood urges her to close them.
she can’t take it. she blinks. jason is there. he swings at the windshield, and debbie steps on the gas.
the truck lurches forward, sounds like a rattling tin can. it goes right through jason. there’s no impact, because of course there isn’t. you can’t kill something that’s already dead, deborah.
she doesn’t hit jason, but she does hit a tree.
she doesn’t realize that she swerved off the road. the blood is blinding. the truck crunches, the front wraps around the bark of the pine tree. at least she can’t see the dents where jason grabbed the hood anymore. her head hits the steering wheel, bounces back, and the collision should probably hurt more than it does. it’s just ... dull. it’s a muted ache that her numbed nerves barely register.
debbie reacts more to the smoke that flows out from under the hood and rises in the cool air, than to the potential concussion. what’s one more hit to the head gonna hurt ? her fingers really are stuck to the wheel, and there’s a pulling sting when she rips them away. she fumbles with the seat-belt, then the handle on the door, then she’s stumbling out of the truck and the world is spinning.
her knees hit the wet ground and her stomach turns. she doesn’t remember it raining ... her hands touch the blades of grass, but she can’t feel them. everything is distant, swirling under nonexistent water. she looks at her hands and they’re coated with bright, fresh red. the splitting cracks in her glasses break her two hands into three, then into four. it makes the ache in her head feel less dull, more real. she rips her glasses off her face, throws them off into the tall grass.
it doesn’t help. now everything is blurry and soaked in red.
she can smell the smoke from the truck. it’s black and billowing, and she swears there’s a flash, a spark, deep under the hood. one of her brothers is a mechanic. he always told her to run if she saw anything like that.
she can’t run. she struggles when she stands, falls back down more than once, but she has no choice. she didn’t survive jason fucking voorhees just to die from her own stupidity. she keeps her eyes to the ground. it’s steady. it doesn’t move. it keeps her head from spinning so much.
she doesn’t realize when dark grass turns to darker asphalt until she falls again, and her knees sting and ache from a harder impact than she expected. she can see the double yellow dividing lines under her legs. she’s sitting in the middle of the road. she’s asking to be run over ... and debbie doesn’t know if she cares.
it would be quick, much less painful than whatever jason will do when he finds her. she has no doubt that he will find her. it would certainly be much less painful than LIVING. does she ... does she really want this ? does she really want to live with the weight of so many deaths on her shoulders ? does she really want to live with the inevitability of a brutal, undignified death at jason’s hands ? does she want to give her parents, her brothers, a taste of having her safe at home before jason rips her away from them again ?
she hears the sounds of car engines and sirens. she should jump at the sound of help, but debbie doesn’t move ... not at first ... it’s not until the roar of the engines drowns out everything that she drags her feet and crawls to the side of the road. it feels dishonorable to stay there. it feels like she’s spitting in the faces of her dead friends to let a CAR be her end ... if jason wants to come for her ... then let him come.
the sirens sound too far away. they sound like they’re sunk at the bottom of crystal lake. the cars stop. flashing red and blue lights lap at the toes of her shoes like waves. one of the cops gets out, calls something to her, but he’s drowning, too. they all sound like they’re drowning. she touches her ears, but there’s too much blood on her hands to tell if they’re bleeding, too. everything feels wet. she knows what that means, knew what that means ... but her head hurts too fucking much to remember.
the only clear memories she has left are drenched in blood and gore.
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