Rough Draft: Death’s Son

With a sigh, he pulled the sock out of G.’s mouth. “Traitor,” G.’s head said from its box in the passenger seat. Shivers ran up and down Pluto’s spine. Reaching over, he buckled the box in.

Staring into the darkness of the parking garage, Pluto asked, “How exactly can you talk without lungs?” He checked the dashboard’s clock.

“What have you done?” G. accused, accenting each word in a cutting staccato.

“Lifted my hand against Fate.”

The engine quietly initiated, and Pluto began his spiraling descent into the darkness. From H-level to G, and from G to F and so on. Down he went, circling and circling. Angrily G. mumbled. Finally, he turned and saw the glossy yellow-painted A.

He pulled out onto the quiet hospital roadway, a glimmer of the sun passing through the dark silhouette of the thickly forested hills, the tall points of evergreens like spires in the rich, blue sky. He counted eight yellow speedbumps as he approached the main road. The tail end of his car rolled over the last obstacle, and he coasted toward the stop sign.