He's Always the One

The lightning cracks like a whip through the sky, offering a glimpse of the road in front of him. Rain rattles against the windshield like a handful of pebbles hurled by an impatient lover at your bedroom door. He tightens his grip on the steering wheel, determined to keep the little car on the slick pavement. He clenches the cigarette between his teeth, the smoke filling his mouth as he tries to navigate through the darkness.

He tries to remember how he came to this point, and all he can think about is the fact that he has to find her. She's lost, she's alone out here in the rain and the darkness, and he has to be the one to rescue her. He's always the one who rescues her, even when she's not aware that she needs saving.

She's aware tonight. Repeated calls on his phone, text messages that get increasingly cryptic and terse, she's in trouble and she's trying to find her way out. He jumped in his car and raced off into the night, determined to be the one to bring her to safety.

He barely catches a glimpse of the rabbit before it is running through his headlights. His foot stabs the brake, and he feels the car skid, the rear end coming around to his right, frantically he tries to recall if you turn into or away from a skid, and as the rabbit reverses course and leaps for safety, the car slides off the road into the ditch.

The violence of the impact throws him against the steering wheel.