Terracotta

Collision of Fates

The shock came to the driver's hands, and he struck the roof in rage then with his feet, the accelerator. The propelling motion prompted the gashed forearm from the swing of the passenger open the flesh in a searing tundra of all worldly spices and green earth hues. The blood hadn't the time to dry when tears started their flights down onto the already steeping chair as I regained my position that was the previous killing, not the driver's indifferent matter anymore. He wasn't the gunman of the transport but lengthed the isle with a prominent index on a petite firearm and the resounding crunch of a chauffeur stiff back, I swallowed the tears and faced him, his hair was the accomplice to a round face befitting of the helmet in the isle and the chords of his mandible quaked in the water color features and neat eyebrows, I wasn't to kill him like the glovebox grabbing passenger but he read my intentions like the spewing open fable on what was right and wrong to do in the situation, contrary to the drooping and sink of his indifferent levitating mouth his brows quietened and his breath became more noticeable then, slowly at first came the screech of metal on metal and the clash of red on red paint, this battle was not short lived and the driver moved his head involuntarily and the baseline of the reverberating auto song switched his aim from me to the middle back seat as the tempered glass became a broken and disfigured art both in the front and back skewing the view I had of him from the wingmirror. A swaying figure adorned with a leather wheel was the only spider web disfigurement I had seen through the tumultuous currents of the arm window that reached to the city, the shards came next of the tendons and the bones of the mirror as a maroon-dressed car came for its business and carted into the defenseless arm. Seemingly from the ether of broken-down glass a sandy cut became an appearance on the skin exposed from the driver's neck and a twin on his short hair at the ending back.