The Spinetinglers Anthology 2009 by

Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Short Stories
Publisher: Spinetinglers Elite Publishing
Published: 2011-02-27T16:00:00+00:00

Where Angels Sing

by Lisa Hinsley

The afternoon sun hangs low in the late winter sky. Birds sing for warmer days and swoop along a powder blue horizon in dark streaks. Trees tremble in the breeze, showing off their engorged purple buds, a testament to the lengthening days. And my car comes to a rest upside down, wheels spinning as they try to regain traction.

In my head, I can still hear the screeching of the tires; feel my stomach falling through my legs as the car skids in the water. Raindrops from the compact grey cloud above are drumming a beat on my Toyota’s chassis in time to the red rain inside. Like a vise, the seatbelt squeezes me, distorting my torso into lopsided halves and all the while the pain grows. I open my eyes, my head aching from the rush of blood, blinking slowly I stare about the car. All around me, chaos is gathered in piles. Used tissues mingle with pens, and maps rub shoulders with half empty coke cans.

Struggling with the seatbelt, I press my fingers desperately on the red plastic release button, the hand grasps at the slippery edges of what feels like cheese wire. But I’m pressing too tightly against the strap; gravity tries to tug me back down to earth, and panic makes my legs push. All the while I gasp for breath. I notice small noises, then realise I’m whimpering for help. My murmurs bring me back to my senses for long enough to know what I need to do to free my body. Before I can forget, I relax, and pull my legs under the seat. It’s difficult, but I manage to lift myself towards the floor and release is a brief pleasure to be savoured before I crash onto the roof.

Among the debris I’m lying in, I find my mobile and pray that this section of country road has a small grasp on a signal. With shaking hands I clutch the handset and press the green button on the selection “home.”

Somewhere, just a few roads away, two miles from my twisted metal prison, a phone rings. Its cold mechanical tone doesn’t care about the pain that’s growing. The hissing silence between tones hears me begging for an answer. Crunched into a contorted pile of limbs, I hold my breath, one more ring left before the answer phone steals my thoughts.

“Hello?” Such a sweet word tickling my ear and kissing my mind, I struggle with my emotions. Forgetting to answer I burble incoherent turbulence back along the airwaves. “Hello, who’s there?” Your voice gains a hard edge. I think you’re about to slam the phone down.

“It’s me,” I cry, finally stringing syllables together. I listen to you pause, and take in the stridency of my voice. “My car, it slid... crashed. I’m hurt. My blood’s everywhere...” A sticky wetness warms my back and a metallic taste coats my tongue as I speak.

“Where are you?” A shout echoes in my head, urgent words coated with fear.

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