“Get away from them, can you?” Clare said.
“I’m trying,” Eliot said. One of the photographers rode his motorcycle up alongside their car, then in front, and began to shoot pictures from through the windshield. The light from the camera was blinding, and Eliot didn’t know how he could be taking any usable pictures anyway.
“I don’t understand it,” Eliot said. “You would think they would be satisfied with the photos of us outside of the party. Wasn’t that enough?”
“I can’t stand it. I can’t.” Clare’s voice strained.
“Aren’t there usually more?” Eliot thought the paparazzi normally traveled in packs.
“I hate these damned men,” Clare said, shielding her face with her hand as the camera flashed bright white. “Leave us alone!” She began to roll down the window.
“Clare, don’t—”
“Leave us alone!” she shouted through the half-opened window, both her hands. Cold wind howled through the car, and snowflakes flurried inside of the car. Eliot reached over to pull her back, and the camera flashed, and then the road slid underneath them sideways although Eliot had kept the wheel straight, or tried.
From then on the world existed only in flashes of light and sound and terror. He heard the tires squeal, and the motorcycle slammed into the hood, the ear-splitting sound of metal on metal and shattering glass. Eliot slammed on the brakes and tried to pull the steering wheel straight, but the rear end of the car swung back and then they were flying off of the road and there was a tree in front and god, oh god. The crash of branches through the windows came only a second before the jarring shock of impact. The world stopped and Eliot saw the blackness rush over him as he hit the airbag, the force knocking him unconscious for a brief second. He felt something sharp tear across his chest and slice his face as he blacked out. Then his eyes opened. Fir branches covered the interior of the car.
Clare. A soft whimper made him turn his head, although his neck hurt terribly. Clare.
The tree branch had come through the windshield and pierced her through the chest at a sharp angle. Her hands touched the bark of the branch over and over again, as though she was unsure how it had gotten there. Blood seeped through her dress, soaking into the ivory fabric and turning it dark red.
“Clare. Don’t move. Clare.” He coughed and wiped at his eyes, hoping that the scene before him would change, turn into something else. The woman he loved sat next to him, dying, he was sure. So much blood. How could there be so much blood? He touched his face and brought his hand away covered in it.
Clare looked up at him, but her eyes were glazed over. Her mouth opened as if to say something, but she could not speak.
“It’s okay, Clare.” Eliot reached over to take her hand. Her fingers slipped against his skin, slick with blood.
“Eliot…”
“It’s alright. You’re going to be okay.” He reassured her even as part of his mind rebelled, going into a crazed state. He saw himself in the seat as if from a distance, watching both of them sit next to each other. Watching Clare die. Would he die too? He looked down. His shirt had been torn by a tree limb, his skin opened up across his chest. His stomach turned at the sight of so much carnage.
A roar of noise from engines made his gaze turn from her to the half-opened window, still intact. In the rearview mirror he saw a half-dozen silhouettes of men on motorbikes. The rest of the photographers. He cleared his throat and cried out.
“Help!” he shouted weakly. “My wife needs help!”
A man came to the side door, his helmet still on, and took a step back when he saw Clare. Another man joined him, then another.
“Jesus,” the first man swore.
“Please,” Eliot said. “Please help.” His hand shook as he caressed Clare’s face. Her eyes stayed fastened onto his.
Then the cameras began to flash.
Clare closed her eyes, and Eliot tried to shield her face from the cameras. His hands dripped with blood.
“Stop!” he cried. “Help! We need help!”
Clare moaned, her eyes still closed. Her hand relaxed its grip on Eliot’s hand.
“Clare?”
She coughed weakly, and a spray of blood misted the deflated airbag in front of her. One hand at her chest, she drew a shallow, ragged breath. The harsh glare of the camera flashes, one after another, illuminated her face, and Eliot saw in bursts of light her head lolling back on the headrest.
“Clare? Clare, look at me. Clare!” Eliot squeezed her hand, but there was no response. He panicked, his voice rising to a scream. “Clare!”
A drop of blood slowly trickled over her lower lip and dripped down onto her chest, which had ceased to rise and fall.