He’s talking, his voice like her father’s, telling her what’s wrong with her. Telling her about her mistakes, how she’s a mistake. For her own good, not his, of course.
He’s driving, at great speed, and she doesn’t look at him, she looks out the passenger window. Looks out at blurred trees, lamp posts, other cars, people on the sidewalk. Wonders when the world actually started to lose colour, because right now it looks like a 1940s film.
Without warning, the view stutters. She looks out the windshield, thinks maybe he’s slowing for a traffic light, but in black and white she can’t tell for sure if it’s a red signal. Can’t tell if the car is really stopping, until it stops abruptly, like film caught in the reel, sending her head back into the headrest. The view flickers, stutters, and melts away to blank white on the screen.
She not sure who’s yelling. Not sure if the car is sitting still or moving again. But it doesn’t matter, because she’s sure of one thing. She doesn’t even need to look when she reaches for the door handle.