This story, like many in The Last Word collection, is based on a true incident. See more stories in this collection and others at the Short Stories &c. link above.

(for Lindsay)

One second.

She stops to pick up her bag. Checks that it is closed. Slings the strap over her right shoulder.

One second.

“I’m going out. Would you like me to pick you up something?” She is thoughtful like that.

One second.

“Oh, lovely. Would you mind getting me a roast beef sandwich and a Coke?”

One second.

“Oh, me too, hun. Can’t get away right now. If you’re going by a sandwich place, how about a smoked meat and cheese on dark bread? And an orangeade?”

One second.

“Is there anyone else?” she asks, calling out across the office. It is her nature. Always willing to help others. Make them feel good. It gives her pleasure.

One second.

A few other of her co-workers in the office step up. She drops her bag on the desk to write down the orders. Sandwiches, mostly. A bun or two. Drinks.

One second.

Some sweets, too. People do like their sweets. Biscuits. Tarts. She is happy to get them for her mates.

One second.

Money is thrust into her hand. Twenty rand notes. Tens. The odd fifty. She writes down the amounts by the names, the orders.

One second.

The phone on her desk rings. She should be on her lunch break. Someone else can get it. But she answers it anyway. It is her way. She is cheerful in her greeting, reciting the name of the company with her “Hello.”

One second.

She checks her desk one last time. All looks in order. It can wait until she’s back, anyway. Again she picks up her bag and slings the strap over her right shoulder.

One second.

The day is sunny and blue when she steps outside onto the pavement. One of those sunny, blue days of early autumn. She squints at the bright sun, all the brighter due to the city’s altitude, brighter still as her eyes adjust to being outside.

One second.

Her car is just nearby and she steps to it. Fishes in her bag for her keys, finds them drifting around amid the collection of daily necessities she, like any woman, harbors in her bag.

One second.

She walks out into the street to reach the driver side door, the right front door, which she unlocks and opens, tossing her bag across to the passenger seat. She gets in and settles behind the wheel.

One second.

Pulling the door closed, she seals herself into the familiar confines of her little Fiat. Belts herself in. Turns the key. The motor sounds like an Italian motor does as it roars to life.

One second.

She glances at her bag on the passenger seat. The lunch list. Did she take it? Yes. It is in the bag, with the money, clasped together. She is happy to be picking up people’s lunches, happy to be of assistance. It is her way.

One second.

She looks over her shoulder to see that the street is clear, and then turns the wheel and pulls into the traveled way.

One second.

The street her office is on is quiet, but as she reaches a main thoroughfare there is the usual near-midday traffic. Not too bad, no worse than on most days at this time. People seem to slow and stop for no good reason. She turns on the radio for some little distraction, some little entertainment offered by the music.

One second.

She knows the way well from the office to her favorite lunch place. It’s been just over a year since she started this job. She was fortunate to get it, hired by the friend of a friend, who had become so much more than either a boss or a friend. And then her friend of a friend, who had become so much more than either a boss or a friend, left the company some months later, sold her interest, became more distant, and finally left the country as well for parts unknown.

One second.

A red robot has traffic stopped. She waits patiently for it to change, the second car in the queue. It turns green, but the driver in front of her seems not to notice. She continues to wait patiently. It is her way, not to let little inconveniences bother her. Finally the driver in front notices the light is green, and pulls out. She follows.

One second.

A turn here, a turn there, the neighborhood becomes more residential, less the industrial ambiance where her office is located. Green trees, some starting to lose their leaves, cover part of the street. It seems quieter and more peaceful here.

One second.

She accelerates a little with traffic. The motor and radio blend together. She slows with traffic, the sound of the motor deepening as it revs down with the back pressure. She knows the way well. She has time, she is early going to lunch today.

One second.

She approaches the T intersection where she must turn right. The robot is green. A woman by the side of the road is selling oranges.

One second.

She makes the green light as she enters the intersection on the left, on her side of the road, her indicator on to signal the right turn she plans to make.

One second.

She doesn’t see the SUV, the big, dark SUV approaching from the right, the SUV driven by the beer company executive, the beer company executive who has had far too much to drink and is late getting back to the office.

One second.

The drunk beer company executive is traveling at above 100 kph on this residential street. In one second he travels more than 27 meters. She is making her turn, her right turn, at just 15 kph. In one second she travels a little over 4 meters. The length of her car, 4 meters, in a second.

One second.

She is squarely in the intersection making her right-hand turn when the SUV with the drunk beer company executive behind the wheel enters it, squarely on her right. What can he be thinking? Is he on the phone? His mind is somewhere else. The sound of big tires skidding on the roadway fills the air. People turn and look.

One second.

The big, dark SUV runs onto and over her little green Fiat. She is inches from the door that crushes in on her lithe, fragile young body, her young body that has not yet lived a quarter century. An airbag goes off. Hits her in the face. She is held by the seat belt and harness, but the metal closes all around her as the big, dark SUV lands with all its weight above her head.

One second.

The pain is blinding. Bones break. Blood flows. She is seeing through her own blood as it pours from behind her eyes.

One second.

She is trapped in a web of steel. Trapped in her pain. Trapped in her blood. Trapped in her shock. Lunch is forgotten.

One second.

It takes more than 20 minutes for the police and emergency services to arrive on the scene. She hears the sound of the jaws of life as they cut away the web of metal locking her in this trap that was her little Fiat.

One second.

The drunk beer company executive says it was her fault. She ran a red robot. The policewoman doesn’t want to ticket him, much less test his breath. But the witnesses, the woman selling oranges by the side of the road, the passersby, are angry, and they tell a different story. They scream at the policewoman. “It is his fault,” they say. “Can’t you see he’s drunk? How fast he was going? He is the one who ran the red robot.”

One second.

She is at last cut from the wreck. Given emergency treatment on a gurney in the street. Her friends arrive, try to make sense of the senseless. She doesn’t recognize them. Mistakes them for other friends. Blood is coming from her eyes.

One second.

A helicopter comes and airlifts her to a hospital. Said to be the country’s best. She is put in a bed in the ICU. Tubes and wires are connected. No one operates. She is allowed to sleep. She is peaceful. It is her way.

One second.

Her widowed mother is there for her, by her side through the night, unbelieving that this could have happened to her little girl, her baby, her only child.

One second.

Her Mum holds her sweet daughter’s hand. It is soft and warm in her own. The morning light casts bright bands and stark shadows across the stiff white sheets of the bed where she lies in ICU.

One second.

She looks deeply into her Mum’s eyes. She loves her Mum more than anyone in the world. There is a piercing look of recognition. Mother and daughter are joined in that look. She smiles. And then she closes her eyes, and is gone.

One second.

Photo by Agê Barros on Unsplash