Crash

Dancing With Death

In that moment, time seemed to slow down. Penelope felt like she was frozen, every second feeling like an eternity. Every moment she'd shared with Charles flashed before her eyes: the dinner where they'd met, the first time she'd taken him skating, the night that he'd first told her he loved her. She remembered the first time he'd taken her to the racetrack, the fights that had dissolved into laughter, the way he'd sit and hold her on the nights she couldn't sleep. 

The only thing she couldn't remember the last thing he'd said to her. How could she be so stupid? The one day she'd forgotten to tell him goodbye, swept up in the rush and the madness of the media storm. He'd kissed her, but she'd been so distracted by a message on her phone that she hadn't even bothered to look up at him. Why did she take it for granted? She should have known better, she should have hugged him, she should have told him she loved him so that he knew. Why didn't she put down the phone? Why didn't she hold him when she had the chance, let him kiss her properly instead of shying away because of the cameras. She should have told him goodbye. 

As she car collided with the wall, a collective gasp rang out throughout the streets of Monaco, followed by a long stretch of silence that sent a chill through her. Everyone was afraid to breathe, waiting to see if he was going to get out of the car. It was a hard hit, in an old car that wasn't even remotely as safety-orientated as modern ones. Paramedics and stewards ran onto the track, jumping over rubble and racing towards the wreck. There was no movement, just a plume of smoke coming from the engine and no sign of Charles. 

Beside her, Pierre was gripping the barrier, his expression grim. She'd never seen him so serious, his smile from earlier completely gone. 

Penelope felt strangely numb, like she was so terrified that she physically couldn't feel anything else. She remembered a story Logan had once told her, some post he'd seen on Instagram while they'd been hanging around for a night shoot. It had said that when people's skin was severely burned, there came a point where they couldn't feel the pain anymore, their nerves so fried that they couldn't detect it. That's how she felt, an emotional burn victim, life happening around her as she waited and waited for Charles to climb out of the car. 

 "Why isn't he getting out of the car?" she said quietly, her voice so small that it was barely audible. From the stands, she could see the red of his helmet stationary in the wreckage, just sitting there. Medics were swarming the car, a steward with a fire extinguisher quickly trying to put out any sources of smoke. 

"Putain de merde..." Pierre breathed, his hands on his head in disbelief.

The medics had reached Charles now, but nothing had changed. He wasn't moving, completely still as they tried to assess the situation. Penelope felt her stomach lurch, like she might throw up any minute. Her skin was cold and pale, vision blurry, though she wasn't sure if it was  due to terror or tears.

"He should be out of the car," she repeated, the air getting harder to breathe. "He always gets out of the car if he's okay."

Again, Pierre didn't seem to hear her. His eyes were wide, still staring at the crash. "How the fuck..."

Penelope didn't remember telling herself to move, but suddenly her legs were carrying her away from the stands and towards the stairs. People were filming her from every angle, but she didn't care. All she wanted was to be with Charles. She needed to be with him. She couldn't let him be on his own. 

Before she could get very far, she felt someone grab her, holding her back. Pierre's grip was stronger than she'd expected, but it didn't stop her from trying to fight it. "Let me go," she ordered, her eyes flicking between him and the track. "Pierre, let me go."

"Where are you going?" he demanded, though he still looked frightened. 

"He's still in the car, Pierre," she said, her voice breaking. "I have to be there, I have to know, I can't do anything from up here."