Chances

Becca was no stranger to running the red lights. She just didn't have the patience to wait. She always did it wisely though -- as wise as it possibly could when it came to breaking the law and endangering herself and others. She wouldn't do it if there was a possibility of causing a hopeless traffic jam. She always made sure she could get away with it without causing any unwanted accident or any run-in with the police. So far she had been a little unlucky when it came to the police interference. Three times out of many she had been stopped and fined by cops.

Then one day, it happened. The most excruciating pain Becca had ever felt, running out of chances. There was no cut, no bruise, no blood, and no reason that she could completely comprehend. Her dependable paracetamol couldn't fix it, even the sure-fire retail therapy failed her -- and that after she had spent her savings on unnecessary gadget, unnecessary shoes, and unnecessary alcohol.

That was when she started toying with the thought. More red lights, more chances of crashing. More red lights, more chances of crashing. More red lights... More. Chances. Of crashing. Becca wasn't stupid enough to think the afterlife would be better, she just needed a broken bone, a battered shoulder, a deep cut, anything that she could actually see. Any pain that was actually real and visible to her weary eyes. Then maybe, just maybe, she could focus more on that injury and her pain would hurt less.

So far she had been unlucky, but with alcohol on her side, she really liked her chances.


More red lights...


...more chances of crashing.