just_writing

(Sorry its late. And then I realised that I wasn't actually a member, and this is my first piece to go public in a long time, but here we go)

--------------

It is jammed.

Pulling desperately at the handle he squirms and shouts as he clutches at it. His hand slaps ineffectually at the glass as the car spins on it's roof, slowing as it goes, his anguish going unheard above the sound of the engines and car alarms and the other cry's around him. He can see the pool of clear liquid that spreads from the broken barrels in the road ahead of him. Flames lick up round the side of the remains of the car that drove into the checkpoint ahead of him. He can't see the barrier anymore or the armed men that stood there.

He has not noticed the blood pooling on what was the ceiling of his car or the bullet holes in his door, made by the firing of the soldiers at the incoming vehicle. He has not even noticed that his daughter is a crumpled ball on that same ceiling as him. All he can see is the spreading liquid and the handle at which he scrabbles.

It is still jammed