Breathe (1)

The steady stream of gasoline from the can weakens to a quiet trickle as he ambles closer, and when he sees this he pours the rest of the can out before flinging it to the side. He walks up to her and shoves the lighter into her hands, and she takes it with the same blank expression she’s been wearing since God knows when.

“Do the honors.”

Her eyes follow the trail, and she catches a glimpse of the community built of wood and thatched roofs. She can’t make out the details very well, and her voice is flat when she speaks. “You were quick.”

His arms are crossed and his upper lip is twitching and his right hand trembles. A pack of cigarettes peers out of his shirt pocket. “They didn't hide their stash very well,” he says, his eyes following the path he'd marked on the otherwise empty landscape. "Easiest find ever."

She squats by the grime, the lighter coming to life in her hands, but she doesn’t let it near the gas. She only stares at him despite the late afternoon sky flaring behind his scrawny figure. “You didn’t check if there were kids?”

“When did we ever check?” He sees her expression and sighs. “There wasn’t any time. Okay? Look, if you don’t want their little lives singing to your conscience, then give me the lighter and I’ll have fun for you. For me. Him. Us.” And he gives her this little one-shoulder half-shrug.

At this she lets the fire graze the grime. The reaction is instant, spontaneous. Bright orange waltzes down the accelerant and towards the decrepit shacks.

“Christ. About time.” He doesn’t bat an eyelid when an explosion drowns out the eerie silence of the asphalt desert, but she does. She watches as the town in the distance erupts into flames and distant screaming stains the air. He takes the lighter from her and by the time she looks at him he’s already reaching for his fix of nicotine.

“This used to be fun," she murmurs as she gets up. Some dust clings to her knees. "Let’s go. It’s getting late.”

He laughs. “What do you mean it used to be more fun? It’s still pretty interesting.” His voice lacks life, and the sentence spills out in monotone.

She’s already halfway to the red car parked a few meters away. “You don’t even watch it anymore.”

He kicks up some dust. “Not like we have anything better to do, unless you have a suggestion?”

No answer.

Fast forward a few minutes and he’s smoking a cigarette, every now and then letting the little white roll shit ash on the leather seat. Sometimes he looks at her and blows smoke into her face, making her expression tighten. Nothing else happens. No rant, no outburst; nothing but a thousand miles of asphalt caged in by the desert fill her eyes. The numbers on the dashboard drift towards ambitious heights.

Unspoken words coil around them, constricting her throat and burning his tobacco. Her eyes are red, stinging, wet. Teary.

His eyes are half-closed, and for a few minutes he dozes, and the little cigarette butt almost elopes with the wind running through his dirty blond hair. But then his grip on it tightens, his right eye opens, and he peers at the petite dark-haired driver beside him. The shadow of a smile skims his face.

Cinder kisses her soft skin. The air is silent save the whistling wind and the hungry engine, but she bites her lip hard enough to draw blood. Blink. Not a single tear falls.

He pouts, sighs, leans back into his seat again. “I wish you’d cry.” His breath stinks, bad as the cities from old days. "You should cry. It's good for you, you know?"

The sun is in her eyes now. He looks away from the windshield to avoid its accusing glare, but she faces it with a straight face.

“Like a fucking robot,” he mutters, head tilted to the side.

And because he’s looking away, her gaze flickers to him for a moment, but he misses it, and by the time he sneaks a glance at her, she’s returned to her staring contest with the sun.

Buildings dot the horizon, cracked and fading. Both still see bruised sunlight through pockmarked houses. Long strands of dark hair calm down and plaster all over her face as her grip on the steering wheel tightens. The car’s engine ceases its rumbling, and a small twitch on his lips foreshadows his words.

“Slowing down, Detta? Afraid someone’s going to flag you down for driving so fast?” He tosses out the pathetic butt he burned into her skin and fumbles around for his pack of cigarettes. He spots it on the dashboard and pulls out another of his beloved fixes, cradles it between two fingers, and moves to put it in his mouth, but doesn’t light it. His eyes shine when he sees her jaw tighten. “Finally. The fräulein stops pretending to be a mannequin. Here I was, thinking you died night or some corny crap like that." He tilts his head back and lets out a long exhale. "Remember what he said, Detta. They used to call it illegal, but today, no one gives a fuck if you do something illegal because no one who calls it illegal is left alive.”

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Author's note:

I wrote this up last night. It's the first 850 words of my new project, Breathe.

All opinions are welcome, especially harsh criticism. I'm particularly interested in comments on the style/flow. Also, do tell me if you would read on? <3 Thank you for taking the time to read this.

**Edited <3 (Thank you to 332sivart, attackedbyleaves, peanut19, storyweaver13, and snoopysoap for pointing them out.)