DailyFlash: Dead-End Drive In

On the screen, a knife glinted in 90-feet of reflected light, and then was dull. The movie cut to laughing mouths; round Os above quivering, smooth necks and plunging necklines. I looked right, to my own private cleavage on offer, and she caught me glancing, catching my stare with her bubblegum eyes, lip gloss glistening and making Os as she chomped on popcorn, smiling. Nancy's ponytail reflected back in the rolled up window, a speaker dangling from the one-inch gap at the top. Sudden screams pierced in stereo, and I put a hand on my own speaker to my left to quell the pain of the sound. On the screen, blood gushed and splattered as the knife tore through skin and teenagers fell like ragdolls. But my ears were already bleeding; I trailed a wet fingerprint down from my lobe to my collar, pulling it away and glaring at darkness dripping from my fingertip. This ain't right, I tell myself. The screams from the speakers have ceased, but my head is gripped in a vice that won't stop tightening. I look at Nancy through tear-stricken eyes but the lights, the blinding lights, they force me to squeeze my eyelids closed. Even if I try to prise them apart, it hurts. I'm groaning and moaning but I can't hear myself. I feel a reassuring hand on my wrist that travels up to my elbow and around the crook up to my hand pressing into my temple. I feel breath on my cheek. I feel a slick wetness on my neck which, if not for the migraine, would have tickled. That wetness became sucking as lips cupped my lobe and - something long and not at all tongue-like - burrowed into my ear.

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