In a Stolen Car

My heart was pounding as I sat kidnapped in the passenger seat of my car. When I stopped at the intersection, all I saw was a gun barrel glaring at me from the left and the guy shouting at me to get out. But then he told me to get in the other side. This isn't good, I thought, as I obediently got in while he was hurling profanities at me. I feared he would pull the trigger at the slightest wrong expression on my face or movement of my hands. I began imagining the explosion of the bullet, then the burning, searing pain of it penetrating my side. I wondered how quickly I'd pass out and what damage it would do inside of me. Would it rip through my kidney or liver or intestine? A lung or heart? He jammed the shifter into drive and jerked the car forward out of the intersection as some people stared aghast at what just happened. My car no longer felt like my car the way he was driving. And it no longer smelled like my car with all his sweat and booze breath filling the space. I wondered if and when I'd hear sirens of the police. I had to keep my hands on the lap of my jeans even though I wanted to grab the door handle just to steady myself as he veered right at the next intersection. Oh, this isn't going to end well. In my stolen car.