Crash and Burn

by Lint

It was raining.

Okay, understatement of the century. Forgive me. I'm not exactly in the best frame of mind here. Dark clouds wrap the sky in a near pitch black blanket, whipping their fury across the land. Lightning flashes and thunderclaps rage in the heavens. Phrases like "raining buckets" and "cats and dogs" come to mind. But I guess they would be understatements too. We don't really need any more of those.

My hair sucks up the rain like a sponge and it sticks to the sides of my head and drapes in front of my eyes, making it that much more difficult to see. My clothes are soaked through and cling to my body like a small child clinging to its mother. My shoes are full of water, giving them that extra "squish" sound to the splashing of my feet already make going through yards of puddles.

I see maybe one or two other people trying to make it through this weather. They could have be shadows or scarecrows for all I know.

I am the only moron without an umbrella.

Though, if I did have one, I didn't think the wind would have been very kind. Wind never really is. Another thunderclap roars and scares the hell out of me. I fall to my knees and slip along the slick asphalt. My hands are scraped when I stand up. The little chunks of skin folded neatly over, the rain washes the blood away as quickly as it comes.

I start the think it would have been so much better if I would have driven. But, oh yeah, my car was sitting in a heap of crunched metal and shattered glass in Al's junkyard two towns over. I would have taken my dad's car but... I can't sit behind the wheel anymore. My hands start to shake and... It just hurts too much.

So here I am.

Running along a rain soaked road in only jeans and a t-shirt with nothing to cover myself in the middle of one of the biggest storms I've ever seen in my life. Not the smartest thing to ever do. I bet I'm going to be sick as hell tomorrow. But I don't care. I can only think of one thing that will make the pain stop. A little rain never hurt anyone.

All I want is for it to stop.

Imagine the fun of waking up in the hospital for the second time in three months. With another concussion, bruised ribs, and one hell of a sore back.

Imagine seeing the faces of your two best friends and father through drug hazed eyes.

Imagine wanting nothing more than to be able to talk to them, but your tongue is too heavy in your mouth to speak.

Imagine them telling you everything was going to be all right.

Imagine not being able to believe them.

Imagine passing out because you were too drugged up to stay awake.

Now imagine how much fun that would be.

When I finally get to his property I nearly fall into mud as I hunch over to catch my breath. My jaw is chattering and I can't stop it. It is hard to breathe that way. I never ran so far or so fast in my whole life. It's funny how people make little sacrifices to get what they want.

I slide my hand across the damp wood of the door as I approach the barn. I take one long lingering look at the house before opening the door. I have to make sure the lights are out and his parents aren't still awake. I know he's inside. My body hums with the sensation of it.

It always smells funny in the barn when it rains. Wet hay will never become a perfume fragrance. I follow the faint sound of the radio coming from the loft. He has it turned to some old time station where the singers croon everything. I think it's sweet he listened to music like this. Even if it did seem a little hokey.

Voices lingering through the threads of time.

I follow the sound.

He is half-sitting, half-lying on the couch. He has his telescope in a loose grip in his left hand. I knew he'd fallen asleep after hours of looking up at the stars. Before the storm clouds came. He was probably making an adjustment when he passed out.

The water dripping off of me leaves a puddle forming at my feet.

I stare at him. At his innocent, beautiful sleeping face. He must have felt me standing there. Felt my need to be close. He stirred and woke up.

"Chloe?" He asks softly. "You're soaked. What's wrong?"

I stare at him more intently. I take off my shirt. I let it fall the to floor. His eyes are wide with shock.

I say "Fuck me."

The last thing I remember clearly was the split second I had to close my eyes before the sound of crunching metal and shattering glass followed. I think I remember I sight of the truck. If it was a truck at all. The memories are still so fuzzy. I can never really be sure of what had happened.

I never asked.

No one ever told.

I stayed too late at school again. My dad joked about me getting a bed there. He doesn't make that joke anymore.

I remember it being a clear night. I saw the moon high in the sky, casting it's warming glow everywhere. I remember thinking I needed gas before going home. I remember driving down Main Street and then making a left onto the road I have to look at the sign now everyday. I can't remember the name of it anymore.

I remember the site of the other vehicle coming on much too fast. The headlights swerving in and out of the lanes. I remember thinking they were drunk. I remember planning to pull onto the side of the road. I remember them going even faster. I remember the split second.

I remember the sound of crunching metal and shattering glass.

I remember sweet oblivion.

Clark is blushing and turning his head away from me.

Clark is so pure and unadulterated. He thinks he's embarrassing me by looking.

My bra is white and soaked through.

It leaves very little to the imagination.

I know he's surprised at the bluntness of my statement. I figure it would get the message out clearly. No romantic subtext to sort through. No what ifs and innuendo.

I stand there and I don't move until he looks at me. His cheeks are the color of apples when he finally does. He looks so confused I worry that I'm corrupting him. That the simple sweet boy I need to heal me will burn and fade away if I get what I want.

We stare at each other. He doesn't blink. I don't blink. What we do is far from the kid's game. He's waiting for me to move. I'm waiting for him to stop blushing.

I take the pills out of my pocket.

He looks at them as they hit the ground.

He knows what they are. He looks back at me in that questioning way. His eyes speak volumes.

"What are you doing?" He asks.

I don't want the pills.

I just want him.

Clark was there in all of my drug-induced nightmares when I was in the hospital.

I remember seeing nothing but darkness and wondering if I was still awake with my arms pinned down clutching the bed sheets. I wanted to move but felt no limbs in which to rotate, no force to put to mass.

I remember seeing nothing but black.

The burst of light came out of nowhere and nearly blinded me as it danced across my vision, and I wished I had eyes to squeeze shut.

Sub-conscious has no eyes, merely a door kept open or closed.

Awake or asleep.

I didn't know where I was.

I thought I was dead.

The colors swirled in no particular pattern in the dome like ceiling from which they hung, spinning their whirling crayola essence in circles that didn't seem to exist. I was so confused. I had no idea what any of it meant. They just spun in lines that held no form. They reminded me of blobs of paint left on some forgotten canvas by an artist who suddenly ceased to care.

It sounds poetic doesn't it?

I felt weightless, like an astronaut floating in the gentle abyss of space.

It scared me. I didn't like not knowing anything.

The colors seemed to call to me after awhile. Inviting me to be close, not really asking but not forcing the issue either.

I didn't know how to answer the request.

The colors churned faster when I asked what it meant. The blacks, browns, and peach tie-dyed variations twisted like a raging river spilling into the falls.

They reached out to me, stretching toward my formless existence.

Living paint.

I remember thinking that's what it was.

Then suddenly I felt a vortex sucking me down. I had weight and mass and eyes then, which I had to squeeze them, shut to try and avoid the blinding light.

When I opened them I saw Clark.

His arms were outstretched.

His posture inviting.

I remember him telling me everything was going to be okay.

I remember believing him.

Motrin, vicadin, and some muscle-relaxer I can't pronounce the name of.

Painkillers to make me feel better.

As if they could erase mental trauma.

I unbutton my pants and Clark looks away again. I let them fall to my feet and kick them next to my shirt. Any boy would be jumping at the sight of a girl not five feet away standing in her bra and underwear. Not Clark. He's too humble. He doesn't believe a girl would actually want to be near him like this.

I take a step toward him. I'm still dripping water on the floor and my teeth are still chattering.

I know what I want.

I'm done being unsure of things.

Clark came to visit me everyday in the hospital. He always brought flowers. He always smiled. He kissed my hand and my forehead a few times. He made me feel good, because he made me feel like a girl. Not many people can do that.

He stayed the longest.

He told me the other driver was drunk.

He helped me in physical rehabilitation.

He brought me magazines and coffee even though I wasn't aloud to have any.

He brought me a picture of my car, my baby, before it was smashed to nothing.

He ran the Torch when I was gone.

He helped me heal faster than I would have on my own.

He said he loved me.

He doesn't want to. He is scared. He's never done it before.

I don't blame him.

Neither have I.

I bet I'm pretty scary looking. Rain soaked and jaw chattering. Throwing pills on the ground and staring at him. He's looking at me like I was crazy. I haven't seen him in a week. Not since they let me out of the hospital. I take his hands in mine and place them on my cold, wet skin. I look into his eyes. I tell him what I want.

I'd said it before.

"Fuck me."

He doesn't seem to know what to say.

He doesn't know what to do.

But then he suddenly softens from his panicked state.

"I'm glad you're better now," he says.

I take his face in my hands. I said thank you with all my sincerity. I kiss him, and for a thrill of a moment he kisses back. But then I straddle him and push him back into the couch. I kiss along his neck.

"What are you doing?" He asks.

I brush wet hair out of my face.

"This isn't right," he says as he takes hold of my shoulders and tries to push me away.

I feel my cheeks flush, and I lean closer to him so that our foreheads press together.

"You saved me." I say.

He doesn't have to ask.

He knows what I mean.

We kiss gently again, and I still feel him resisting.

I'm getting him wet with my soaked bra and panties. He doesn't seem to notice.

My tongue slips between his lips and as soon as I make contact with his, I feel his resistance end.

My legs wrap tighter around his hips, and our kisses grow intensely. I take one of his hands and I put it on my chest. I know I'm the one that's going to be making the first moves. I moan softly into his mouth and he squeezes gently. I pull at the waistline of my panties and break the kiss just long enough to see the look in his eyes when I tell him to touch me.

They grow so beautifully wide when his fingers make contact. But then I can't see him anymore. Because the sensation of his hands on me, inside me, cause them to close. I push him away just long enough to pull the wet material off.

"Chloe," he says in a hushed whisper.

"Don't want to stop," I whisper my voice feeling husky, before leaning in and kissing him again, before he has the chance to say something else.

"What are we doing?" He manages to gasp inbetween my tongue invading his mouth.

I knock his hands away from my shoulders where he tried gently to push me back. I inch my way forward again keeping my face mere millimeters from his.

"I want this," I say simply. "I want you."

He doesn't object again. Maybe he knew I wasn't going to stop until I got what I wanted. Maybe he realized that kissing me and touching me wasn't exactly the worst thing in the world that could happen. Maybe he even realized he wanted me too.

We're still engaged in wet, sloppy, kisses (where he learned to kiss I don't know) when I begin to unbutton his pants. Surprisingly he lifts his hips slightly, and I feel a sudden heat coming from his body. Another button and my hand is in, stroking lazily up and down his rigid shaft. It surprised me how good it feels. It feels like silk against my fingers and he sits up quickly, throwing his arms around me and plunging his tongue deeper into my mouth. I think I he's turned on by my moaning, because his kisses grow more fierce, more lustful. And for that brief moment I could believe that he wanted this. Wanted me. I break the kiss and remove my hand. I see in his eyes that he's about to protest but both my hands are on the sides of his jeans tugging them down before he can. I take a second to admire the bulge in his boxer shorts once his jeans were below his ankles and purr softly. I straddle him again, teasing myself with the thin material of his undergarments. Who know flannel could be so enjoyable? I feel him run his hands up and down my back and my hips grind into his. It's instinct the motion. Anything to get closer. He pulls at the strap that magically kept my bra on all this time. And when he finally gets it undone he takes in a sharp breath at the site of me topless. Normally I would have gotten horribly shy at this moment. But the look of pure wonder on his face erases those feelings as quick as they come. He runs a finger across my nipples, they're already peaked with my excitement, and lets his tongue move closer to make contact before moving in slow lazy circles over them. My grip on his cock tightens when he does this. I've never felt something so good.

"Clark..." I moan into his ear.

I know he's turned on by it this time. His tongue moves faster, and his suction becomes harder. Then the next thing I know we're kissing again. Hungry, desperate kisses of rising passion. Romance novel junk can't even compare. His fingers eagerly trace across me again, and I shiver at his teasing. My hands move on top of his and I guide him back to my core. I rip his shirt over his head, while his fingeres are still inside me and attack his chest. I bite at his nipples, run my mouth down his toned abs, and trace my tongue just above the waistline of his boxers. I pull them down and slide back up to face him again.

"I want this," I repeat when I still see doubt in his eyes.

"Condoms," he says. "In the desk drawer. I need one."

For a second I'm surprised. Clark didn't seem the type to be prepared for a moment like this.

"I'll get it," I offer.

I move to my feet slowly, the euphoria of touching him and having him still playing tricks on my mind. His head falls back onto the couch. The unbelievable was about to happen. I am thrilled and nervous all at the same time. Little butterflies in my stomach. Yearning, yearning to be free. A minute later I'm feeling the latex through my hand, pulling over his still ready shaft. His head lifts his to look at me, but his eyes close at the feel of me sliding onto him. He sits up to shower my neck with kisses and I move my hips slowly, instinct again, and start to build some kind of rhythm. His callous hands attach themselves to my hips and he lifts me further than I could go on my own. I cry out at the sensation it causes between my legs and I throw my arms around his neck, crushing my lips to his. The rhythm grows faster and Clark is stirring underneath me, mumbling my name in incoherent gasps. I don't know how much longer I can last, I am so wet and so hot and him moaning my name is starting to become to be too much. I know he could feel it building too as my movements seem to quicken even more. As I come my arms wind around his neck so tightly I feel like I'm nearly crushing him. All it takes for him to follow me is one more whispered moan of his name.

We collapse back on the couch still embracing each other, our breathing heavy. My head rests on his chest as his hands stroke my still wet hair.

"You're so beautiful," he says quietly.

And for the moment I believe him.

Because I sure feel that way.

I forget all about the accident then.

I knew Clark would make it all better.

He always does.

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