Hit and Run

[Sarah’s POV]

I was on my fifth bottle of cheap beer. It was disgusting, but it was cold, and it provided a calm between me and the crushing reality of my existence.

My small suitcase containing the pathetic remains of my seven-year marriage was wedged between my boots. I felt like a stray dog that had found a dry corner to hide in before the final storm.

"Refill."

The bartender, Miller, didn't turn around. He was wiping down the counter at the other end of the bar.

"Hey." I knocked my empty bottle against the counter. "I said refill."

He turned. Looked at the bottle. Looked at the four others lined up beside it. Looked at me with the specific expression of a man doing arithmetic he didn't like the answer to.

"No," he said.

"Excuse me?"

"You've got five bottles sitting there you haven't paid for. Plus three from last night." He set down his cloth. "I'm not running a charity."

"I'm going to pay." I sat up as straight as the bar stool allowed, which wasn't very. "I just need a small extension."

"How small?"

I opened my mouth. Closed it. He pointed at the door.

"I'm not ready to leave."

"You're not ready, but you're going," he said, and turned back to his counter.

The television was on a channel broadcasting the Rider Group’s Emerald Gala. The volume was low, but the images were sharp.

 I saw them.

Tyler Rider, his hand resting with a terrifying possessiveness on the small of Lucy’s back. Lucy was wearing a gown of liquid silver that clung to her curves like a second skin.

The "OMG" moment didn't come from their presence, though. It came from the interview.

The reporter leaned in, her microphone thrust toward Tyler. "Mr. Rider, the rumors are swirling. Is it true that your recent divorce was spurred by your ex-wife’s... struggles with certain substances?"

Tyler didn't hesitate. He looked directly into the lens, his expression one of practiced, tragic nobility. "It’s a difficult time for Sarah. We tried everything... rehab, private clinics, therapy. But some people don't want to be saved. I only pray she finds the help she needs before it’s too late. My focus now is on the future. On Lucy. And on our son."

He leaned down and kissed Lucy’s shoulder, right on national television.

"What a saint," a woman at the table next to mine whispered. She was dressed in a knock-off designer blazer, her face flushed with gin. "Imagine being that beautiful and that rich, and having to deal with a junkie, cheating wife."

Her friend laughed, a sharp, grating sound. "Some women are just born trash. You can put them in a penthouse, but they’ll always find a way back to the gutter where they belong."

The world went silent. It wasn't a peaceful silence. My weeks of hunger all formed into a single, white-hot needle of pure rage.

I didn't think as I stood up, my chair screeching against the floor like a dying animal. I walked over to their table. My vision was tunneled, the edges of the room blurring into a dark smear.

 "Say it again," I whispered.

The woman in the blazer looked up, her lip curling in a sneer. "Excuse me? Do you mind? We’re trying to—"

 "Say it again!" I roared, the sound tearing from my chest. "Say I’m trash! Look at me!"

"Oh my god, it's her," the friend gasped, her eyes widening as she recognized the haunted face from the tabloids. "It's the Rider woman. Look at her, she’s clearly high right now."

That was the snap.

I reached out and grabbed the woman by the front of her blazer, dragging her out of her chair with a strength I didn't know I possessed. "I gave him seven years of my life!" I screamed into her face, my spit flying. "I lost three pregnancies while he was in her bed! You know nothing!."

I grabbed a glass of gin from the table and smashed it against the edge. The sound of shattering crystal was the most beautiful thing I’d heard in weeks. The sheer violence of the act sent the entire bar into a frenzy.

"Hey!" Miller shouted, leaping over the bar.

I grabbed the woman by her hair, slamming her head down onto the sticky table. "Tell me I’m trash again! Tell me!"

"Help! Someone help me! She’s crazy!" the woman shrieked.

Miller’s massive arms wrapped around my waist, lifting me off the ground. I was a wild cat, scratching and biting at the air. "Let me go! I’ll kill them! I’ll kill them both!"

He dragged me through the bar, my heels scratching the floor, while other customers filmed me on their phones. I was going to be the lead story tomorrow. I was giving Tyler exactly what he wanted.

Miller shoved me through the basement door and onto the sidewalk. I hit the wet concrete hard, the impact jarring my spine.

"Don't come back, Sarah," Miller said, his voice heavy with a strange kind of sadness. "For your own sake. Just... go."

The heavy door slammed shut. I stayed on my knees, my breath coming in ragged, sobbing gulps. I looked up at the darkened New York skyline, feeling the weight of the entire world pressing down on my shoulders.

I was done. I was empty. There was nothing left but the small, flickering pulse in my womb.

I stood up, my head spinning as I stumbled toward the intersection of 8th Avenue, my eyes fixed on nothing.

I didn't see the light turn red. I didn't see the pedestrians stopping on the curb. All I heard was the sudden, violent roar of an engine. I turned my head. Two blinding white lights were rushing toward me.

"NO!" a voice screamed from the sidewalk.

My feet went out from under me. The ground came up hard and fast. I tried to curl my hands around my stomach, a gesture of protection.

**I'm sorry, little one, I thought, my eyes closing. I tried. I really tried.**

"Is she alive?" a man’s voice shouted from somewhere far away.

The last thing I saw before the darkness took me was a man's face above me.