Story About Moving Away

First comes the sound of screaming brakes, then the violent thud of metal on metal.
Her little boy’s arms flew around her neck, saying, “Kiss me when you come home. Wake me up and give me a kiss. Make sure I’m awake.”
There is an unnatural silence.
The sound of high heels click rhythmically on asphalt, coming closer. Her little girl is cheerful, hugging her and smiling because, “Daddy is going to give us a better bedtime snack then you do, Mummy. He’ll give us something with sugar in it!”
The smell of blood is thick, cloying, and strangely comforting in its familiarity, but it doesn’t belong here in the car, and the incongruity is deeply disturbing. She feels herself sobbing and can’t imagine why. It is embarrassing to be seen like this and now someone is looking in at her, wanting to know if she is okay. Of course, I’m not. Please leave me in peace. Can’t you see that I prefer to be alone right now?
I hate leaving things like this with

She tries to press the “unlock” button to be helpful, even though she just wants them to go away, but she can’t find it and suddenly doesn’t care. If they aren’t smart enough to realize that I am too tired to chat right now, then they can stay outside the door and try until they give up. They can bang on the window asking how I am, and I don’t have to answer. . . .
I just want to sleep and wake up in the morning and pretend this never happened—that we didn’t have a fight, that the kids didn’t hear what we said to each other, that we don’t have several days of awkward suppers and silent evenings ahead, while the children sleep and we take turns drifting out of whichever room the other one is in.
A siren is getting closer and then another. More footsteps are running, running, pounding, pounding. The flashing lights are fading in and out, the voices rising and falling. She is aware of strange sensations below her waist, but she can’t exactly call it