One Night

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is a story very much inspired by 'Funeral Song' by The Rasmus. I'm including a link to the video for anyone that wants to watch it.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qyc3dAMKtqA

Cover title and image:
Book cover by: Ammad Malik
Profile: Designed-Up
Portfolio: www.designedup.weebly.com

Submitted: September 07, 2019

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Submitted: September 07, 2019

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One Night

This is some messed up kind of relationship that we’ve got. No matter what we disagree on, you have to agree on that. First we’re together, all over each other; then like some cancerous growth, the distance pushes us apart.

How many times have I told you to go? I’ve lost count, but I always take you back, let you in to my life for us to have another go at mutual destruction. It’s as though there is some kind of insane desire that destroys my logical mind. I don’t understand what it is, why it won’t work out between us. Why we can’t just forget each other.

Still, we try. Fatal attempts, of course. Confusion and conflict will always win out.

The blame is mine. I pretend that I’m okay, make you believe my demons have been exorcised, when really they are running just as rampant through me as ever they were. It is an act that can’t be maintained, this pretense. The monster of my madness, my overwhelming despair, will rear its ugly head and roar.

The rows, the insults, the assaults on every possible sense become too much. I won’t stay, will walk out. Or you’ll throw me out. Whichever, it all results in the same thing. A separation that is essential, but one that refuses to be maintained.

I climb into my car. Thump the wheel, throw myself back in the seat then forward towards the steering wheel. Only when the hard plastic is pressing in to my head will I let the tears come. I start the engine, wipe the tears from my eyes and with a curse, I pull out in to traffic.

Or do I? I don’t know, but I’m sure I’m in bed... asleep. I steer through the traffic, tossing and turning in sheets that tangle. Screeching and screaming, metal scraping, glass breaking, tumbling over and over. Bounced from one side to the other, tossed like a rag doll; no weight, no substance.

I’m asleep. I’m dead.

What does it mean if I’ve died in my dreams?

* * *

On the street, rain is torrential; the pavements, the roads are running with water. It must have been pouring down for a while now.

All these people, dressed in black, walking slowly, steadily, going about their business. Big umbrellas pass from left to right, right to left; not one of them so much as brushes against me. It’s like I’m not there.

The cars are at a standstill, wipers pushing more rain to the ground. It runs in rivulets down my face. No one looks at me, not so much as a glance; just a dog that seems to see me, bristling and barking. It almost looks scared.

I lean forward, chilled now, pushing my hands into my pockets. Maybe it was that the drew the material apart, or maybe it was a sudden gust of wind. My black coat lifts to either side like a pair of wings, setting the murder free. The crows fly; the umbrellas cause no obstacle to their flight path as they just seem to pass through them before they disappear.

I keep walking. Flickering lights, the yellow of headlamps, the strobing flashes of red and blue. The reason for the immobility of the traffic just ahead now. Emergency services – police and ambulance. The lights shine back off the water, flood my eyes, as the rain floods the street.

A policeman moves everyone back from the car. It has rolled more than once, has come to settle on its roof. Crumpled, crushed, no more a vehicle, but now a mangled mass of rubber, metal, plastic and glass. He moves everyone back, stops them all from approaching; but he ignores me, does not seem to see me.

My car...

The body is still laying there; all apart from the face, barely distinguishable from the tarmac. Black, red, white... There’s no rush to move it, the lifeless body. Dropping to my knees, I lean forward and look into a face that I know so well. Not yours; but mine.

I died in my dreams.

Light a candle for me.


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