THE BUZZING ENERGY OF THE STREET WAS INFECTIOUS.
Her laughter rang through the confined space of their silver car, her mop of blonde hair covering her face as she leant forward, arms wrapped around her middle as she gasped for air between laughs.
To her left, her mother grinned, hands gripping the steering wheel as she stared ahead. The woman swerved through the traffic, they were late. Oh, so terribly late for their appointment, but laughter was good for the soul, was it not? Her brown irises sparkled in the late afternoon sun, the air conditioning was turned up full blast to beat the mid-summer heat, and to the woman's displeasure, they were burning through petrol like one would drink a bottle of water on such day. She would have to turn at the next service station just so they would make it.
Sure, her job paid well, but the cost of living in the inner-circle of Melbourne's suburbs was higher.

The car behind them blasted their horn as they swerved in front of them.
So close now, yet so far.
She pulled into the service station, muttering a 'stay here' to her daughter beside her. Her daughter watched her carefully as she opened the hatch, stuck the nozzle in, and waited for the petrol to stream through the pipe into their car, the tank slowly filling.
The mother smiled as she turned her blonde head, almost running to the building.
The payment was quick, the call of a number, the tap of a card, and she was back in the car, sliding the stick into gear, and on the main road once more.

They did not see the van pull into the station after them. They did not see the masked men and women sliding the door open, sticking their guns out in front of them, and taking the civilians hostage. Nor did they see their leaders disappointed look as they did not find who they were looking for.

They did not see the civilians when they were shot, right through the skull, men, women and children alike. There was not one live soul when the next car pulled into the station, unaware of what had happened, after the van disappeared back onto the main road.

Their car pulled off the road into a smaller street. More cars lined the street than those who drove along it. In the distance, the young girl could hear sirens blaring.
She turned to her mother, wary, "What was that?"

"Nothing, dear. Nothing you need to worry about."

The girl saw her mother's dark look in the corner of her eye, the way her lips were chapped from endless chewing and gnawing.
The car slowed as they reached and intersection, a busy street ahead. The blinker was the only sound in the vehicle, as the radio had stopped working long before she could remember. There were only old CD's to play, and neither mother nor daughter enjoyed the music that was on those discs.

Click. Click. Click.

The traffic streamed past. Her worry would only grow in the matter of moments when her mother eased the car forward, leaning toward the road so she could see around the corner of the building. The humming of the car joined in with the chorus of the blinker, and the roaring of the tires that zoomed past created the drumbeat that echoed in her heart.

Click. Click. Click.

Once the coast was clear, her mother pressed down on the accelerator pedal. Their car sped across the multiple lanes, joining the traffic on the other side.
She let out a breath, easing into her seat. She'd rarely been in a car beforehand, as everything around their home was in walking distance.
"Not far now." Her mother muttered as she changed lane, car rolling to a halt as the lights turned red.

Neither mother nor daughter saw the van speed up as they caught sight of their idling car. Neither mother nor daughter heard the singular shot ring out until it was too late.
Civilians screamed, scattering, rushing into nearby shops to escape the range of fire.
She jumped in her seat, turning her head frantically to her mother. She did not say anything as she ran through the red light, her mother's steely gaze reflected in the glass.
Tires squealed, rubber burned, and a hoarse cry escaped her throat as a new vehicle slammed into theirs. She would later learn that inside the other van were those from the same organisation.

Her mother grit her teeth as she braced herself, other cars slamming their breaks as theirs flipped. The pair screamed, throats turning dry.
There was another crash, and their car rolled once, twice, three times.
Glass shattered and sprinkled itself over them, like a light shower of rain.

Moments later, the squealing of tires would cease. Doors slammed, and sirens began to blare in the distance. Heading toward the incident.
She blinked the tears out of her eyes, shouting for her mother. With a mangled arm, she reached out, and shook her mother's shoulder. Screaming, crying, the tangy taste of blood filling her mouth.
Her shouts turned to a series of gasps as she shifted. It took her too long to realise she was hanging upside down, the seatbelt being the only thing keeping her from cracking her head on the jagged metal roof below. She raised a hand to touch her forehead. As she pulled back, a wet substance stuck to her fingers.
She gasped for air as the seatbelt restricted access to her lungs. Between sobs and shouts, her wheezing cough was not heard.
To her left, the car door was ripped off. A sneering face leant down, their hood masking the minuscule details.
They whispered, "You may have won now, Bronwen, but do remember we always have the upper hand."

Her sobbing was only paused for a moment, long enough for her to register the words. She squirmed as they held something that was eerily similar to a handgun up against her temple.
The last thing she saw was their faces as they beheld their triumph.

She would awake days later to her father beside the bed, disheveled, face unshaven. She would awake to the news of her mother's death, and that the government did not find the terrorists who caused the incident.
She would awake to a blank mind, and unfamiliar faces.

And her first words would be those that questioned where she was, and who was Bronwen?