Were you supposed to die tonight?

She opens her eyes, darting to the alarm clock by her bed.

17:00

Had she fallen asleep? She couldn’t remember the last time she had taken an afternoon nap. A round bed, lilac comforter, white pillows, where is her hairband? The alarm clock now says 17:01, a half-drunk can of Cherry Coke.

Someone honks. A few seconds pass, the sunrays relinquish their territory over her voile curtains, and another honk. She gets up, hair tucked in her shirt, the coldness of the wooden floors shocks her.

‘What?’ she shouts at the car now parked on her parents’ driveway. A boy sticks his head out; his dark hair has an almost blue hue.

‘Stevie?’

‘Come down, Lola!’

‘Where are we going?’

‘To see a film!’

They fight over the music throughout the entire drive. He wants The Clash; she likes The Smiths.

‘Ramones.’

‘The Cure.’

‘The Cure? Sure, if you want to crash your car when you inevitably start crying.’

‘I’m not listening to “I want to be Sedated” fifty times in a row.’

‘Dead Kennedys?’

‘Dead-’ he repeats. ‘Now you are getting your music privileges revoked.’

‘Oh ok, let’s hear your next great suggestion. If it’s Joy Division, I’m jumping out of this car.’

‘What’s wrong with Joy Division?’

She doesn’t answer, fiddling with the radio. It settles on the one Nirvana song they both like.

And that song lasts for hours. Until the sun starts to set, it continues playing when they stop the car in a quiet lane, unpaved road, when she asks, ‘What about the film?’ and he replies that they can catch the next one.

It continues to play over the sounds of footsteps and rustling leaves. Maybe it played yesterday and the day before, in the other cars parked in this spot.

It continues playing when the door opens on his side, but neither of them notice, when he’s pulled back, an icy hand hooked in the back of his collar, it plays while she screams, his name, incoherent words, just sounds, when she catches a glimpse of herself onto the machete, she has daisies intertwined along her braids.

It’s brutal; she cannot look anywhere else. He stops fighting, stops telling her to run away. In that moment, skin and bone are one and the same texture; she can almost feel it under her French manicure, applesauce-like.

What remains of his head lolls as he is tossed down, the grass so tall it almost covers him, cushions his fall, hides him.  

The Other turns to her; she can see it happen before it does.

But maybe this isn’t right either. The world fades, unfocused.