𝐩𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 ━ transformers

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧

I can do this. I can so do this. I, Eleanor Cambridge, can do this. I am going to do this so hard, my children are going to feel it. Which, okay, sounds weird. Like, completely and totally weird. So weird that my kids are going to poison me before I hit the age of fifty just for that thought. I won't even be old enough to get into a nursing home. Which is okay with me but complete off subject. . . .

Gosh, I can't do this.

But I have to. Because school and stuff and Ratchet seems to think that a death machine is better than the two legs I have. Whatever.

Monday has arrived. Yep. It's the day where I officially die. People will tell this story to their children. It'll be a story passed down for generations: Eleanor Cambridge--death by a truck named Ironhide. Ironhide out of all names. Granted I named my car Dinky but still.

Ironhide.

However, now that I think about it, it seems pretty great, the name, and maybe I can get Ron (we had a long talk on Saturday about how he didn't need to treat me as though I was porcelain and him pushing me was not a big deal--stop apologizing, Ron, I'm fine!--and now we're okay, thank the heavens) to give me a kickass name and then the story will be, Eleanor Cambridge: (Insert kickass name here, thanks Ron) Defeated Ironhide Before Her Untimely Demise. That sounds a lot better than death by truck.

It's six something right now and even though we don't have to leave until like ten after seven ("Taking a truck isn't walking, Ellie. It's driving and it takes less time. We don't need to leave at the ass crack of dawn, go back to bed.), I'm pacing outside like some kind of razed lunatic because I can do this.

I know I can. This piece of metal with four big tires and exhaust pipes that are wider than my arms isn't going to defeat me. I will get in this truck. Even if it kills me.

"Ironhide was it?" I question because maybe my sanity is gone. I know this truck can't talk to me but sometimes (back when I did drive) I used to talk to Dinky in traffic. Usually when I got road rage and there was no one else in the car with me. (Dinky had some mean things to say about other drivers.)

The onyx truck just gleams at me, headlights looking oddly like eyes as I stare at it longer. I wonder if I'm going crazy. Probably. I plop myself in front of it and try not to panic too much.

I inhale deeply. "Okay, Ironhide. Hi. Hello. Nice to meet you," I say, clinging my jacket around me tightly as the wind picks up. "Um, okay, could you maybe not kill me today? Like, is that a possibility? Because while I'm sure that the people who drive you are superb drivers, the truck's gotta do the heavy lifting, yanno? So, like, if you stall out or something, that's not good. Please don't stall out," I plead quietly, clapping my hands in front of me in a prayer because I literally have lost my mind.

"What are you doing, kid?"

My heart is in my stomach when I jump up, eyes wide. Seriously, I'm going to have to get Ron a bell or something. Maybe have Alfonzo follow me around everywhere since he's the only one who can sense when Ron's coming.

He's wearing all black today--nice attire if I do say so myself. Personally one of my favorites. What with the dark contrasting against the tan of his skin and making his blue eyes pop out like cerulean diamonds. . . .

Off topic again. I reign myself back in and hope that I don't look as embarrassed as I feel.

Ron has an eyebrow arched but he doesn't look put out. If anything, I would say the soldier is a little amused--but that's not right. Ron doesn't do amusement. I'm not sure if the man even laughs. (I make a mental note about that for future references.) But he stands there, in all his brooding glory, smirking at me as though I have humored him some how.