Fade to Black by Steven Bannister Page A

throttle hard, eager to get home and see how this crazy meeting would play out.
    The bike shot out from under her like a wet piece of soap and at once, she was airborne, hurtling toward the ripsaw surface of the road. She watched almost in slow motion as the old Yamaha clattered in a shower of sparks toward a parked car. She noticed dreamily that it was a white Ford Focus. She looked down at the black, gleaming road rushing up to meet her, powerless to act. She hit the road hard, face-first. She felt her body jackknife at the impact. There was a moment’s silence, then a kaleidoscope of lights and colors, followed by a mind-numbing collision—her right side slammed against a concrete and metal light pole. She heard a canon shot a split-second later, realizing it was her helmet smacking with incredible force against the unyielding structure. The rain hissed.
    She listened from afar to the bike’s motor still screaming as it lay on its side, still in gear, the throttle jammed against an unknown object—maybe a wall—she didn’t know, couldn’t turn her head to see.
    She was propped-up in an awkward sitting position, her back against the light pole, her legs splayed out at impossible angles. She finally managed to screw her head around and gaze in a detached way at her bike. She had to turn that bloody motor off; it was really annoying. She simply stood, walked over, squeezed the clutch handle and turned the ignition key. The engine died. Silence trilled in her ears. There was no traffic and she was glad. Looking down at herself, she wondered how she had stood. Her legs must be barely attached. Her leathers were ripped to shreds and her jacket had no left elbow. Her visor had been smashed off, the remains strewn in a jagged trail down the road. She remembered now how she had hit the road face-first and had thought before she even hit the light pole how she’d probably need plastic surgery to sew her face back on.
    Distractedly, she peered at the road, stupidly expecting to see her face sitting there. What a night , she thought. Sighing, she effortlessly picked the bike up and wrenched the handlebars back into square. Had there been a witness to this, they would have been amazed at the feat of strength this broken and bleeding being had just displayed. She noticed her hand trembling, then felt the tremble vibrate out to all of her limbs. Shivering set in. Reality had arrived as the shock of the accident moved to another level. Shivering gave way to uncontrollable, force-ten shaking. Unconsciously, she propped the bike on its amazingly still-functioning stand and sat abruptly down on the wet road. Somewhere amid the shaking, she knew she had to screw-up the courage to check herself out in the bike mirrors and then call an ambulance.
    She knew in a moment of clarity that in all probability, she looked like she’d slid face first down a cheese grater. She presumed that shock was anaesthetizing her, masking her true condition. Another text message came in. She decided to look at it—anything to delay looking in a mirror. She stood and fished in what was left of her pocket, surprised that the phone was still in one piece and working. She squinted through the heavy rain at the short message.
    Bummer. Get back on your bike and get home as fast as you can. You’re ok… this time.
    Well now, she thought. I’m ok, am I, Mr. Know-it-All? Let’s just see. With that, she bobbed down so she could look squarely into the damaged mirror on the side of the bike nearest her, the rain so heavy now that it bounced off the road, speckling and distorting the image in the mirror. She lifted her helmet off and took the plunge, taking a long, hard look. She still had two eyes, a nose and a jaw. A great start , she thought with huge relief. She smiled at her reflection and noted that she still had teeth—the nice white, even ones that Rachel hated. She smiled a little more broadly at that thought.
    She swept aside her dark hair, which now