(Fiction (by me) from my writing group last year)
The charcoal sky hangs like a cloak over the unlit highway. My eyes dart from the road ahead, to the trees at the roadside that pass in a blur, then back to the road ahead. My foot presses down on the gas pedal. I'm aware I'm going much too fast, but I can't slow down. My hands grip the steering wheel with such pressure that my knuckles discolour. I feel a sense of panic rising from my stomach.
I have to find them. I have to.
I press harder on the gas and hunch over the steering column. I strain to see anything through the oncoming headlights that blind me with their glare. Faster, faster I drive.
Where are they? Why can't I find them?
I can feel the car swerving from the speed and I try desperately to stay on the road. My arms hurt from the effort, from the tension.
I can't see them. I need to go faster.
I slam my foot against the pedal and accelerate hard. I have to get to them. The other cars on the road are mere streaks of light now. I'm shaking. I can't breathe. I feel the sweat on my neck as I turn to the side trying to focus on the grassy verge as I rush past. I look back to the front just in time to see the lights. A truck. Too close. Too bright. Too late.
I scream as I feel the impact. Hear the crush of metal on metal. The shattering of glass.
The charcoal sky hangs like a cloak over the unlit highway. My eyes dart from the road ahead, to the trees at the roadside that pass in a blur, then back to the road ahead. My foot presses down on the gas pedal. I'm aware I'm going much too fast, but I can't slow down. My hands grip the steering wheel with such pressure that my knuckles discolour. I feel a sense of panic rising from my stomach.
I have to find them. I have to.
I press harder on the gas and hunch over the steering column. I strain to see anything through the oncoming headlights that blind me with their glare. Faster, faster I drive.
Where are they? Why can't I find them?
I can feel the car swerving from the speed and I try desperately to stay on the road. My arms hurt from the effort, from the tension.
I can't see them. I need to go faster.
I slam my foot against the pedal and accelerate hard. I have to get to them. The other cars on the road are mere streaks of light now. I'm shaking. I can't breathe. I feel the sweat on my neck as I turn to the side trying to focus on the grassy verge as I rush past. I look back to the front just in time to see the lights. A truck. Too close. Too bright. Too late.
I scream as I feel the impact. Hear the crush of metal on metal. The shattering of glass.
* * * *
The force of the crash wakes me from my nightmare and I find myself sweat-soaked, sat upright in bed. I wipe the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand before reaching for the glass of water beside me on the table. Still shaken from the nightmare I see the water tremble in the glass, the glow from the streetlight outside enough to see by. I drink the water back in one, needing to quench more than my thirst. I steady the glass back on the bedside table and run both hands through my hair to relieve the tension. I look at the clock. Three thirty in the morning. Again. This early-morning rude awakening is something I have grown used to. A nightly occurrence. When will it end?
The house is silent. I get out of bed and walk barefooted across the wooden floorboards to the window, where I stand for a while looking out at the faint glimmer of pink on the horizon that
marks the start of another day. I rest my face against the coolness of the glass and look along the street for any signs of life. There is nothing but stillness. Everyone else has more sense than to be awake at this ungodly hour.
Giving up on the idea of going back to sleep, I walk into the bathroom. It takes a moment for my eyes to get used to the bright light. I pee and then stand at the sink to wash my hands. I stare at my reflection in the mirror before me. I can’t believe how tired I look. And how old. Much older than my 33 years. Pale, dry skin and dark circles beneath my eyes betraying the secret of my recent past.
I loosely tie back my long mousy brown hair and splash water across my face. Grabbing the towel I pull it down across my face absentmindedly as I watch myself in the mirror. I’m wearing a white vest and a pair of pink-striped pajama pants that are now so loose the drawstring hangs long at the front. I’m the slimmest I have been in years. Too thin for my 5’8 frame. Drawn. I laugh at the irony, having struggled to lose a few extra pounds the year before.
I sigh and hanging the towel back on the rail, turn and head downstairs.
I sit at the kitchen island with a steaming mug of coffee, and then I call the only person I know who will be awake at this unearthly hour. My Mum.
It’s almost eleven in England. The phone rings several times at Mums end before she answers. I say hello and ask how she is.
“Anna Darling!” She sounds pleased to hear from me. “I’m fine. I was in the garden. Your Fathers mowing the lawn and you know how I have to supervise him – otherwise he’s likely to cut off all my Clematis with the bloody mower.”
We both laugh and then it’s her turn to ask me how I am. I take a sip of my coffee before answering. “Fine, fine”.
“You sound tired darling.”
“It’s four in the morning Mum, of course I’m tired.”
“You’re still having those nightmares.” It’s more of a statement than a question and I don’t answer. I close my eyes and hold my breath. I know what’s coming next.
“Why don’t you come home?”
“Mother.” I warn her off.
“Just for a while, for a change of scene…..it might help.”
“Mum, this is home. If I’m going to sort my life out then I need to be here.”
“But it doesn’t seem to be helping darling…. And you’re all alone there….and you’re so far away.” Her voice full of concern. “We could help you. We want to help you.”
“I know you do Mum, but I need to do this on my own. No one can do this for me. It’s going to take time. And I need to be here.”
“And anyway,” I continue a little too quickly, in a tone that I hope sounds brighter. “I’m not alone. I have my friends here.”
“You know what I mean.” She replies.
My eyes travel to the photographs on the old wooden bookcase in the family room. “I know what you mean.” I say sadly.
After a moments silence, my Mum adds “Just think about it darling, okay?”
“I will Mom. Thank you.”
The subject changes to small talk and after a few minutes of chat, my Mom is called away from the telephone again by my Dad. We say our good-byes after I promise to eat properly. After I hang up and empty the last little drop from my coffee mug, I head back upstairs, warmed at least by the thought that there are people who care about me.
