Chapter Text
“They saw that her left breast was swinging loose like a flap, and there was no need to listen for the heartbeat beneath. The mouth was wide open and ripped at the corners, as though she had choked a little in giving up the tremendous vitality she had stored so long.” –The Great Gatsby
She looks away for a moment to search through the collection of cards and receipts in her purse, but that’s all Stiles needs to slip away at the first distraction: the pet store across the street. He’s nine and knows how crosswalks work—God, he isn’t a baby—but he just isn’t paying attention. A woman exits the entrance with a puppy in her arms. He’s bored from waiting in the line outside the ATM. He doesn’t even realize that he’s fidgeting away from his mom and wandering into the road to get a better look. The supermarket is that way anyway. He’ll just wait for her on the other side of the street.
He just isn’t paying attention.
He isn’t the only one. Three people lose and regain their attention at exactly the right times in order for this sequence of events to transpire:
“Oh my God, Stiles!” his mom shouts when she turns and sees him in the crosswalk. Attention regained.
Oddly enough, that doesn’t make him look at her. It makes him look at the road, at the car speeding towards him without any intention of stopping. It’s far enough away that he can move. He can. He just can’t. Like a deer caught in headlights, he’s paralyzed by gleaming red chrome. Attention regained.
His mom races into the street, races to him. She pushes him hard enough to make him go flying. He’s in pain even before he skids across the pavement.
And then there’s this awful sound like a tea kettle screaming (the driver hitting the breaks, the squealing tires—attention regained far, far, too late) and a smack and a crunch, a bit off wail. The people at the ATM and the other people on the sidewalk, including the woman with the puppy, catch the sound and stare at the scene, at the mess on the road. The car barrels backwards and then whizzes by in the space between Stiles and his mom. Stiles catches a glimpse of the driver. He’s wearing a Beacon Hills High letterman jacket. He disappears around a bend.
The people are shouting.
“Bastard, bastard! I’ve got his license plate!”
“Someone call 911!”
“What do we do to stop the blood?”
“Oh my God! Stupid kid running in the road!”
“Stupid woman, not paying attention to her kid!”
“Driver should’ve been watching! His fault!”
“Are they coming?”
“What do we do for her? Hey, ma’am?”
There are hands on him, pulling him away from his mother and pulling him toward her. He doesn’t end up moving far. His shoulder hurts where her palms slammed into him.
She lies in the road surrounded by a pool of red. Her head is bleeding. It cracked when the car knocked her down. Stiles can see a split in her skull, leaking and leaking. Her legs are bent backwards in places. Bone pops out of her shins. She’s bleeding so much.
Stiles looks down at his legs and knows what’s inside them now. He throws up.
The ambulance comes. The paramedics put on a spinal collar and carefully hoist her onto a gurney. The police officer who accompanies the ambulance recognizes them, knows Stiles’ dad. He takes Stiles instead of forcing him to ride in the ambulance. Dad on the way to the hospital, he tells him. Will bring you to meet your dad there. Here, let’s clean you up.
(Later, when Stiles is fifteen, he’ll read The Great Gatsby for class. He’ll stare at the description of Myrtle Wilson’s death in his room. He’ll roll the book up in his hands, clench his fingers tight around the cylinder of paper and decide not to throw it at the wall. He’ll go to class the next day, unassuming, fine, prepared and, ready. Then they talk about the gaping wound across her breast. And some kid will make a joke that Stiles won’t remember because of the roaring blood in his ears. And the kid will laugh. Stiles will excuse himself to the bathroom and sit in there until his fury settles down, until he’s just thinking and breathing, until the bell rings and the class is over. And no one will know because his mom would be six years dead and he should’ve been ‘over it’ by now.)
Stiles meets his dad at the hospital while his mom is in surgery. His dad hides his face in his hands, muffling his sobs. He’s sitting in a chair in the waiting room with his body crouched forward, his chest nearly touching the tops of his thighs.
And Stiles says, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Over and over.