The Taste of Rust and Meat

The smell of Mama's kitchen after she mops, mixed with the faintly rubbery scent of the lab. It was just last year when you were five and visited the lab with your parents. Daddy held your hand tight. Dr. Tina waved. You sat on the spinny chair in Daddy's messy office, the papers like snow.

Mom was there too. They worked together, unlike other parents. You were lucky.

The taxi ride home. You sat on Daddy's lap. The driver looked awful, his face torn. Mom whispered he smoked. But he smiled at her, his hair soft, freckled.

CRASH.

Your ears ring. Your head spins. Daddy's hands clutch your face, screaming. Mom screaming too. And the driver's face... Gone. A crater of wet red where his nose was. His jaw hanging. Blood pulsing out, soaking everything. The smell is thick, like rust and meat. You can taste it.

Glass everywhere. Shards in your hair, in your mouth. Daddy's hands over your eyes, but you saw it. You can't unsee it. It's burned in.

Then he moves. A twitch. His head lifts, blood trailing. He blinks. And looks at you.

Mom smiles, relief on her face. She touches his hand. Holds it. Whispers something.

He lunges.