Page 68 of Stroked Hard
“What’s that?” I press the gas pedal, Green Burrito looming up ahead.
“The kind of things Mom would sell. She wouldn’t sell Wheaties boxes, she would sell crazy shit like the first sock you ever masturbated with.”
“Why the fuck would you say that?” I can’t contain the laughter erupting from me. “Christ, Holls, Mom better not have that shit, or even know when I first masturbated.”
“Have you looked in hope chest? She has the weirdest shit in there. There is a,” she gulps and then looks at me, “condom wrapper.”
“Oh come on, Holly.” I cringe and my phone vibrates on my lap. Looking down, I see it’s a text from my coach. What does he want? I reach for it.
“Hollis, look out!”
Her voice rings through my head, her scream carrying through the car giving me just enough time to swerve out of the way from rear-ending the car in front of me.
Everything happens in slow motion: The vehicle loses control; Holly’s cry echoes in the tiny cab; the distinct crunching of my car hitting a tree; the smell and blunt force of the air bag hitting me.
Holly’s cry.
The screeching pain coming from her throat only to quickly die down with silence, the engine steam filling the silence.
Tunnel vision eclipses me. I can only see one thing: Holly’s limp body supported by her seatbelt.Such a weird angle.
So much smoke.
Burning eyes.
Black everywhere, the steam so heavy, the cab getting hotter at an exponential rate.
Why is there so much smoke?
Holly . . .
Glancing over, calling her name, wanting her to wake up, praying to God she’s not dead . . .
Sirens sound off in the distance, Holly still hasn’t moved despite the countless times I call her name. I can’t reach her. All I want to do is reach her.
So much smoke.
Voices call out to me, asking if I’m okay. They sound muffled, not even real. None of this seems real. This isn’t happening. This is a dream. It has to be a dream.
A deafening crunching and sawing sound reverberates in the cab, voices calling out from around us, the words Jaws of Life, stretcher, and paramedics ring through my mind but I can’t focus on anything but Holly.
Smoke, blood . . . so much blood. Sirens, voices . . . so much smoke.
Tears fall from my eyes. News reporters claim it was all an accident. The doctor saying Holly will never walk again. It’s all coming at me in fast motion, speeding through me. The heavy weight of the accident sits on my chest, suffocating me.
Hollis Knightly, car accident, paralyzed sister, hits tree, Holly Knightly’s career is over.
Holly’s diving career is over.
A loud scream sends me shooting up, my eyes fling open and I look around my room. There’s no smoke, no blood, no paramedics. I’m in my condo, in my bed dripping in sweat trying to catch my breath.
“Fuck,” I mumble, running my hand over my forehead while my rapidly beating heart hammers away. It was a fucking dream.
Just a fucking dream.
“Christ.” I sit up against my headboard and try to catch my breath.
This isn’t the first time I’ve relived that nightmare. Nope, at least once a month I get to hear, smell, and revisit the fucking day I ruined my sister. Sometimes, if I’m a true glutton for punishment, my sub-conscious puts the show on repeat for a few days in a row.
