Blake | Accidental accident

The rain fell on New York City like a judgment, a cold, relentless sheet that turned the streets into rivers of reflected neon and brake lights. It was the kind of night that made you feel invisible, which was precisely why Blake liked it.

He was parked in a loading zone outside a bodega in a part of Brooklyn that had seen better days, the engine of his beat-up Honda Civic idling softly, a low purr lost beneath the drumming on the roof. The wipers slapped back and forth, a frantic metronome. His bleached curls were damp from the sprint from the apartment, and one of his single silver rings on his thumb tapped an impatient rhythm against the steering wheel.

Three minutes. That’s all it should take.

Through the fogged-up passenger window, he watched the bodega’s flickering sign. Karl, the owner, was a creature of habit. Every Tuesday at 9:45 PM, he’d take the evening’s cash, modest, but enough, to the safe in the back room. He’d be gone for ninety seconds, max. Blake had timed it. Twice.

Sean thought he was at the library. Adam was probably passed out on the couch. And Evan and Eiður… well, they didn’t need to know everything. This was Blake’s thing. A little test. A little thrill. Something that was his.

His phone, a clamshell Motorola, buzzed on the seat. A text from Sean: u home soon? storm’s bad.

Blake’s lips curved into a smirk. He didn’t reply. Soon. Just picking up a little something.

He checked the rearview. The street was a canyon of shadows and rain, empty except for the occasional car racing through the downpour. Good. He pulled the black beanie lower over his forehead, the wool scratchy against his skin. The scent of his cheap body spray (something aggressively citrus) filled the car, fighting the damp smell of wet denim and old fast food bags.

Okay. Go.

He killed the engine, the sudden silence loud in his ears save for the rain. He slipped out, the cold air a slap, and darted across the slick asphalt, not running, but moving with a quick, efficient grace. The bell above the bodega door jangled a pathetic, tinny sound as he pushed inside.

The warmth hit him first, thick with the smell of stale coffee, fried food, and mildew. Karl was behind the counter, a grizzled man in a stained sweater, watching a small TV with the sound down. He glanced up, eyes narrowing. Blake gave him a wide, innocent smile, the one that made people see a cute college kid, not a thief.

“Just need some smokes,” Blake said, his voice friendly, pitched higher than usual. “Marlboro Reds.”

Karl grunted and turned to the wall of cigarettes.

Now.

As the old man’s back was turned, Blake moved. Not toward the counter, but down the narrow aisle toward the storeroom door, which was, as predicted, slightly ajar. His heart was a quick, light flutter against his ribs, not fear, but excitement. This is mine. All mine.

He slipped through the door into the dim, cluttered back room. Cardboard boxes, the smell of dust and onions. And there it was, on a rickety metal desk: a small, grey safe, its door open. Inside, a neat stack of bills and a few rolls of coins.

Blake didn’t hesitate. His hands, adorned with silver rings and bracelets that jangled softly, were swift and precise. He scooped up the cash, stuffing it into the pocket of his baggy cargo pants. He left the coins. Too heavy. Too loud.

Forty-five seconds.

He was out of the storeroom, back in the aisle, just as Karl turned around with the pack of Marlboros. Blake accepted them, handed over a crumpled twenty from his jacket pocket and took his change with another bright smile.

“Thanks, man. Stay dry.”

He was back out in the torrential rain before Karl could even nod, the bell jangling behind him. The cold was shocking after the store’s fug, but triumph was a hot wire in his veins. He’d done it. Clean. Simple. Easy.

He sprinted for the Civic, the stolen cash a satisfying weight against his thigh. He fumbled with the keys, rain blurring his vision, his bleached hair plastered to his forehead. He got the door open, slid into the driver’s seat, and shoved the key into the ignition.

The engine coughed to life. He didn’t bother with the seatbelt. He needed to be gone, to melt back into the city’s wet, anonymous bloodstream. He threw the car into drive and pulled out from the curb with a slight squeal of tires on wet pavement.

The world through the windshield was a warped, liquid painting of taillights and streetlights. The wipers fought a losing battle. Blake was buzzing, a grin splitting his face. Sean’s gonna freak if he finds out. Adam would probably ask for a cut. Fuck ‘em. This is mine. All–

A shape. A blur of movement from the right, at the edge of his vision, where the rain was heaviest and the light from the bodega sign died.

It wasn’t at the crosswalk. It was just… there. Emerging from between two parked vans, a hurried figure trying to dash across the street.

“Shit-!”

Blake’s reaction was pure instinct, a violent jerk of the steering wheel to the left and a stomp on the brake. The Civic’s tires lost purchase on the slick asphalt. The world tilted. There was a sickening, dull THUD from the front right corner of the car, not a crash of metal, but a softer, horrifying impact.

The car slewed to a halt, angled across the lane.

Silence, except for the hammering rain on the roof and the frantic swish of the wipers.

Blake sat frozen, his hands locked on the wheel at ten and two, his knuckles white. His breath fogged the windshield. The hot wire of triumph in his veins had gone cold and sharp, like ice.

No. No, no, no, no.

His heart wasn’t fluttering anymore. It was a sledgehammer trying to break out of his chest. He stared straight ahead, through the smeared glass, at the empty, rainy street ahead.

Did I…?

Slowly, mechanically, he turned his head to look out the passenger-side window.

There, on the glistening black asphalt, just beyond the hood of his car, was a figure. Curled. Not moving.

A violent, full-body shudder wracked Blake. He fumbled for the door handle, his rings scraping against the plastic. The door swung open, and the roar of the rain filled the car. He stumbled out, his Converse slipping on the wet road.

He rounded the front of the Civic, the headlights casting his long, distorted shadow ahead of him. The rain immediately soaked through his beanie and jacket, plastering his clothes to his skin.

He stopped a few feet away.

It was a person. {{poss}} hair already dark and matted with rain. {{sub}} was lying on {{poss}} side, one arm tucked underneath {{ref}}, the other flung out. A dark patch was spreading on the asphalt near his head, diluted instantly by the pouring rain.

Blake’s stomach turned to liquid. He took a step closer, then another, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps that plumed in the cold air.

Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck.

He crouched down, the knees of his cargo pants soaking through. Up close, he could see the person's face. Eyes closed. A trickle of red from {{poss}} hairline was being washed away by the rain as fast as it appeared.

Blake’s mind raced, a frantic, screaming static. Call 911. Run. Check if {{sub}}'s breathing. Run. Sean. Adam. Fuck. The money in my pocket. The safe. Karl. Run.

His hand, trembling, reached out. He hesitated, his rings glinting under the streetlight. Then he touched two fingers to the side of the person's neck, under {{poss}} jawline, where he’d seen it done in movies.

A pulse. Weak, but there. Thumping against his fingertips.

The relief was so acute it felt like nausea. He wasn’t a murderer. Not yet.

But he was a criminal who’d just hit someone with his car. With stolen cash in his pocket.

He looked around wildly. The street was still deserted. The bodega’s sign flickered. No one had come out. It was just him, the rain, and the broken boy on the ground.

I have to… I have to do something.

His own rules, his own clever, secret world, had just collided with someone else’s in the worst possible way. The thrill was gone, replaced by a cold, clawing dread that started in his gut and was crawling up his throat.

He leaned closer, the rain running down his neck. His voice, when it came, was hoarse, stripped of its usual playful energy, raw with panic.

“Hey… hey, can you hear me?”