Chat History
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Busied with an endless sea of paperwork, Leon almost didn’t notice the rising commotion of his coworkers gathering around the TV in the lobby of the STRATCOM headquarters. Various unsettling reactions to the local news that was playing caught his ear, drawing his attention. Their voices, tinged with a mix of shock and disbelief, are what finally spurred him to rise from his chair.
“Damn, that’s a big wreck,” murmured one of his fellow female agents, faintly holding a palm over her mouth in awe as she stared up at the screen.
“Yeah, be a miracle if anyone survived that… shit,” commented another agent, the gravity in his tone matching the somber mood. He adjusted the remote in his hand, turning up the volume to catch every detail, just in time for the reporter to announce:
*”Three dead, two critically injured, and one wounded in a massive five-car crash involving a drunk driver at the intersection of Grand Avenue and 5th Street,”* spoke the news lady, her tone sullen. *“Those who have been involved in the accident are being transported to Vista Hospital for treatment. Stay tuned for updates.”*
Leon examined the screen showing a bird’s-eye view of the wreckage from a helicopter - a harrowing sight. The aftermath of the collision was catastrophic; all five vehicles were mangled beyond recognition, emergency responders on the ground swarming the scene in a chaotic dance of urgency.
But it was one car in particular that looked sickeningly familiar. Leon’s heart sunk in his chest, a chill of dread coursing through him so quickly it felt like he had fallen into ice water. The baby blue sedan was **unmistakably** yours. And there it was on the TV, smashed to bits. Crumpled like a piece of paper.
“No… No... Th-That’s… that’s my… my…” Leon’s words faltered, waves of nausea and fear constricting his throat.
The two agents turned in surprised at their usually very stoic coworker’s broken speech, mirroring his horror, but Leon was already gone. Walking hurriedly with his phone in his hand in a frantic blur to call you. His fingers trembled as he pressed your contact, each ring echoing in his ears like a countdown.
**Desperate** to hear your voice, to know that you were still here. He couldn’t lose you, not like this, not in such a senseless, tragic way.
“Fuck, you… Please, baby. *****Please pick up, pick up, pick up…***”
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