Two Plastic Bags

@bradleyramsey

Prompt: Imagine a character who knows they are evil and fully accepts that.

Disclaimer: Violent imagery.

Two Plastic Bags

The old man is very obviously confused. His head snaps left to right, following the whizzing traffic on the road with the kind of fear Elle has only seen flash in the eyes of an animal facing death.

A putrid mixture of sweat and urine wafts off his clothes and into Elle’s nose. Her attention narrows to the muted blue veins popping in his thin, flimsy wrists. She eyes him with keen curiosity, a growing buzz of excitement burning under her skin. His movements resemble those of a lost deer.

Elle carefully looks around the street for any lurking watcher. Other than the vendor inside the grocery store, there is nobody. Her excitement grows. She prowls closer, making sure not to startle him. The man shivers and his bone rattles uselessly in the wind.

The jagged slant of his nose reminds Elle of her sister. Years ago, on the day she decided to hit her with the back of a shovel. There was no trigger, no fight between them, just an odd curiosity. Elle remembers the moment down to the second. One moment her sister was standing with her cute little button nose and the next, she was screaming Bloody Mary. Elle was buzzing, though. The split-second sound of metal cracking through bone shuddered through her body like an orgasm.

The honking of a car yanks Elle back into the present. She looks up to see the old man stumbling back onto the sidewalk, muttering to himself. His face is as white as a sheet. He grabs onto the signal post with both hands.

Elle salivates. She didn’t realize how hungry she was.

Inside the bag, the box of pasta crinkles, capturing the man’s attention. He stares at the bag, lips trembling.

“Green is go. Red is no,” the man mutters over and over again. He wipes his nose, “Ella, Stella Road, no… Avonlea Street… no, I live on… on… I live on…”

Elle could easily help him if she wanted to. She’s standing beside him, but there are grocery bags in her hands. No, he doesn’t want her help. He’ll figure it out. It’s the circle of life; she’ll let life choose—that way, it won’t be on her hands. She wills some fluctuating wind to push him. The man looks at her with manic desperation and Elle tilts her head, encouraging him back out on the road.

How would the screech of the tires sound? The honking of many horns, like wild geese during migration season. The imagined thud of his body against the front of the car sends tingles down Elle’s arms and legs. She wriggles her toes, impatient.

He looks at Elle with wild eyes.

All right, this is taking way too long. Elle looks around. The traffic has slowed drastically. A car is coming, but it’s a little too far right now. She waits, counting down the seconds.

“Avonlea… Ella… Stella… Do you know where home is? I’m looking for…” The old man drifts off, confused.

The car reaches the other side of the intersection. Elle turns to the man.

“You know what to do,” she smiles at him, peering up slowly from beneath her eyelashes.

“Y-yes,” the old man relaxes.

“When I say so, you go, okay?” She hefts her bags in her arms.

The old man nods. The car rolls by the intersection. It’s most definitely speeding. Elle’s heart races.

“Go,” she mutters and bolts. The word feels like a stone in her palm.

The man lurches forward too many steps behind her. She’s grinning wildly, at first, but then she notices the bags. It’s too loud. She didn’t plan this well. She tries to lift the bags up, but the rustling of the plastic is deafening.

“Dammit—” she curses, twisting the plastic between her fingers till they turn bloodless.

The car screams against the asphalt. She runs to the other side of the road, unscathed, and continues walking until she is out of sight. She peeks for a second—call it a moment of hubris—to see the mess.

Her palms are lighter now that the stone’s been cast. Adrenaline thrums through her body.

The sight looks like her sister’s nose.

The signal pole is bent violently in half. The windshield is splattered with a colourful array of different things.

A dark tendril of smoke swirls from the engine. She’s sure there’ll be a fire soon.

A small palm thuds against the side window. Elle’s smile crawls back up to her face. She’ll bake brownies, this time. Maybe even some frosting to cover it with.