Bo didn’t know if time was moving slow or fast. 

She had seen him in her rearview mirror, that car she noticed earlier was zooming and zigzagging around the other cars. She hadn’t thought anything of it, just wrote him off as an overly ambitious driver wanting to get his name in the game. Maybe that was her arrogance talking.

The distant blast of a horn came just a tad too late. Bo could hear the sound of her tires tearing – and, well, the first thought to her mind was: [i]fuck, those were $40,000 tires[/i]. The tires run flat and road jostles her around, her seatbelt digging into her collarbone like a knife. In her mirror, Bo can see the son of a bitch take aim again and she attempts to swerve out of the way, but she isn’t exactly mobile at the moment. 

This is when time slows down, the moment where his finger presses the trigger and the bullet wedges itself into her gas tank. Everything else is like snapshots, single moments that her brain barely registers as her car flips and skids across the road, into the direct line of the moving cars. Heat makes her neck prickle with sweat, but it’s not scorching. Her precious, and very fucking expensive car, slides to a stop.

Bo is disoriented at first, and she presses her hands above her onto the roof. It is only when she can feel the hot blood rush to her head that she realizes that she’s upside down, barely held up by the pressing, cutting strap of her seatbelt. She unbuckles herself, slamming down onto her knees hard, glass slicing through her leather pants. Bo is scrambling for purchase, for a gun, a weapon, anything, but her feet have no traction it seems and she keeps slipping on her roof and her legs are shaking from adrenaline. Bo is vaguely aware of something wet and sticky on her face, but she pushes it from her mind – she can’t think about that, not right now. 

Through the shattered window – she paid good money to make those windows durable, what a fucking ripoff – she can see boots crunching on debris and asphalt and tiny pieces of her prized car. There’s a vague idea of death, niggling in the back of her brain, causing her brow to sweat, but she can’t quite process the thought. She can’t die, she just can’t.

[color=#B74141]“Where the fuck is my gun. Where the fuck is my gun. My gun, my gun, my gun.”[/color] Bo chants desperately, her hands trembling as they attempt to open the latch of her glovebox. The glovebox is slightly squished, and tented in the middle from slamming against the road again and again. It’s stuck, it won’t open and Bo begins to panic even more then.

Because, death seems a lot more plausible now.