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Shuttling down a countryside road in West Germany, Vytis wondered again—how did he get here?
Rain had swelled in grey clouds, battering the windshield of Diego's paltry Volkswagen that probably had a few years on him. Seriously, whenever the loud shit he was listening to had a particularly aggressive bass part, the speakers and doors vibrated ominously. Vytis did not want to explode in a cheap third-hand Volkswagen that was currently at a worrying (considering its age) 100kmph, so he turned down the music.
He rocked with every small dent and bump that the car rolled over, his guitar case between his legs, lolling forward. Diego didn't even have his seatbelt on.
Vytis snorted. Why did everyone else in their godforsaken band have to be worryingly incompetent behind a wheel, or be too inebriated at times to operate a car properly? This usually meant he couldn't ever enjoy himself (get drunk or high). Kiana road raged too much, Suzuki couldn't even drive, and Elsa had schizophrenia; no sane person would ever put her behind a wheel, lest she hadn't taken her medication. Again.
He couldn't even gaze out of the window—the onslaught of rain blurred everything and, honestly, was more cause for panic. Diego probably couldn't even see where he was going, which was always just great when the person behind the wheel was probably trying to get his high. The cigarette Vytis held slowly smouldered, the ashen tip scorching the knuckles of his index and middle fingers. The passenger window, the one he sat beside, was rolled down to get rid of the smell of his cigarette. The inside of the car door was beginning to get damp. Rainwater soaked into his cargo pants, and he grimaced. He flicked the cigarette butt out of the window and watched as the wind swept it behind them, the glowing amber tip dying in the rain's onslaught.
Suzuki and Kiana were playing "I Spy" (Suzuki more invested in the game, Kiana staring somewhere random). Elsa gazed sinisterly from the right of his car seat and into his rear-view mirror.
Sometimes, he got the feeling she didn't like him.
What did it matter anyway? He was now focused on Diego accelerating again. Accelerating. On a country road. Something that wasn't even properly paved and had more dips and bumps than the sky had stars. Vytis began to feel queasy. He usually drove at a vaguely legal speed when he was behind the wheel. Diego's pupils were dilated, and his eyes were wide from the thrill of rocking about, seeing the world blur past him, inconsequential as the rise and fall of the moon, and just as fleeting. The three in the back didn't seem to care. Vytis folded his hands together anxiously.
The engine gave a strained whine as Diego pushed it harder, the needle creeping further right. The car lurched over a shallow dip, suspension groaning in protest, and Vytis felt his stomach drop somewhere near his boots.
“Diego,” he said, trying to keep his voice level, “you might want to—”
“Relax,” Diego cut in, grinning too wide, eyes still fixed ahead. “I’ve got it.”
That was exactly the problem.
Another bump—sharper this time. The guitar case slammed against Vytis’ knees, and he hissed, grabbing it before it toppled sideways. Behind him, Suzuki let out an exhilarated laugh. Kiana didn’t react at all. Seriously, did everyone in this stupid band have to be batshit crazy?
The next dip wasn’t shallow.
Vytis’ stomach lurched violently, his grip tightening around the guitar case until his knuckles went pale. Something in the suspension gave a protesting scream, and for half a second the Volkswagen felt less like a car and more like a tin can skipping across stone.
"Diego," he muttered, "pull over."
No response. Only that same grin, fixed like it had been stapled to his face.
Rain hammered harder, visibility shrinking until the road ahead looked less like a path and more like a smear of grey uncertainty. The headlights barely carved anything out of it.
"Diego—"
"Relax, live a little, it'll be fine!" Diego gestures to the back seats, where the three girls all seem not to really care about what's happening; possible imminent doom.
Vytis repeats himself, more urgently, "Pull over, now. Stop at that hard shoulder."
Perhaps it's the new no-nonsense tone in his voice. Perhaps it's his stare, burning into Diego's cheek. But Diego relents and pulls over. He exhales.
Vytis wrenches open his door and stretches himself. He stands on the wet asphalt. His guitar leans against his seat. Vytis picks up his guitar in its case and shoves it in the boot, already holding a plethora of musical apparatus. He slams it shut and walks to the driver's side.
"Out."
"Excuse me?"
"You're free to kill yourself in a high while alone, but not with us in the car. Don't you dare be so selfish as to take us with you. Out."
Diego seemed to focus after that, his eyes previously wide with excitement and thrill now wide with shock.
Vytis is soaking now, the rainwater has stuck his hair to his face grossly. He is livid.
Climbing out of the car, Diego leaves the driver's seat and sits opposite, at the passenger seat. Vytis huffs and sits down, adjusting his seat to his liking (his legs were cramped in this position).
He places his hands at ten and two—where they should be; not three and nothing, (as Diego usually drove). Vytis does not move until Diego puts on his seatbelt.
The Volkswagen is gently pulled back onto the road.