Crystallize by Lindsey Stirling
The sun is aggressive, beating down into the street. Sweat sticks my t-shirt to my lower back and I imagine icicles and snowy hills of winter instead of the blistering city in the dead of summer.
I hate July.
I’m going to have to run to catch the shuttle at Cheverly. The metro lines are down again as if the trains are protesting the sticky putrid underground air. It seems like they always are lately, but maybe it’s my mind playing tricks.
My feet slap the pavement and I have an arm up to ask the driver to wait, though I know the cause is pretty much lost.
That’s when he catches me.
Eyes green like apples but blue like the water when I was on Caribbean cruise before my family hated me. Eyes that are crystalline, light, and not paying attention.
A cab runs the red, and I know he’s going to die.
My runner’s legs tense, and I know before I turn in his direction that I’ll be too late.
A car horn screams, the sound too light and high for the pounding in my chest.
Somebody yells, “Hey!” but that won’t stop the cab or move the beautiful boy.
The cab clips his left hip, he scorpion falls to the pavement, limbs flailing, smacking his head with a crack like lightning. Beach glass eyes close as he rolls to a stop.