Breckland Writers Short Story Winner: It’s Not You, It’s Me.

Bundle!  We only went and won the competition!  It was only a book token, but the praise from publishers was very, very welcome.

Story after the jump.

His hands on the wheel trembled, almost imperceptibly.  His heart pounded as hard and fast as the pistons driving him forward. His shaky hand reached for the radio as the soft, disembodied voice guided him on the road ahead.  But he knew this route.  Glancing at the neon instruments, he watched the ticker climb slowly up as the distance to her drifted down.  A twitch as the refrain burst into life.  He knew what was coming, but he was startled regardless.  Had he noticed the irony?  Probably not, and even if he had, he wouldn’t have smiled.  He couldn’t, yet.

It was a dark evening.  Darker than he would have expected for the time of year.  Every pothole was concealed; every hazard would jump out unknown.  He still couldn’t smile. The tarmac dragged him onward with almost relentless focus.  Nervous laughter escaped, an almost arrogant smirk.  Where it had come from was a mystery to him – it was a genuine fear that gripped him now, all confidence left with on the bathroom cabinet with the razor and aftershave.  Was that sweat he felt on his brow?

A red torch in the gloaming bid him to stop.  His mind drifted into his imagination as the grey monotony of the road began to grip him. He cast an affectionate look at her, sat quietly beside him – at least, as affectionate as he could manage. Melody turned to static as he drifted timelessly.  One day, his hand was being held tightly, and a shy giggle, somehow familiar, lit candles in his eyes.  Though aware of loss of focus, he allowed the thought to take shape.  A thumb stroked his wrist as his free hand was taken.  The touch was gentle and warm, but made him shiver involuntarily. The next after, he would draw sharp, cold breath, as if he’d been running for miles, and feel a pleasant warmth approach his face. On another day, he would see her face, peaceful, as his hands slid gently around her neck.  He would sit for hours; studying every tiny imperfection, drinking in every nuance, crease, counting every downy hair.  Her eyes would close and he would kiss her again.

The lights turned green.  The voice spoke again, terse and clinical, a sterile finger jabbing his thigh.  The lack of emotion was strangely comforting to him right now, as his mind sifted through scenarios and situations.  He was becoming nostalgic over an argument, resolving an imaginary disagreement over some perceived wrongdoing.  He remembered it fondly, as he should.  It was a few hours ago. It was the moment he truly realised what he had to do, all over again.

What the fight had been about, he didn’t remember.  It was unimportant.  The only thing that was, and remained important to him was the outcome, and the way she was now sat next to him.  He heard her whisper something indistinct.  He gazed across to her and managed to smile little more than a pained grimace.  Perhaps he was reminiscing about old times together, with her or someone else.  He recognised the obvious theme, that things always ended this way.  The two of them, all alone, at their favourite spot.  He was almost ritualistic about it now.  It was something he had gotten used to over time, had become easier with practice.  The first time – what was her name? – was a mess.  Loud, over-emotional and hard to walk away from, her screams had replayed like a skipping record in his mind ever since.  He had heard her again with this one, her desperation echoed in her crying and pleading.  It was always undignified, of course, but this one was different.  Through the animal noises and gasps she held his stare – only for a moment – but very nearly enough to stop him.  Nearly.  He cradled his head in a state of dry satisfaction, completely relaxed, almost post-coital in his bliss.  She was silent now, the life choked out of her.

He finally arrived at the shore.  It had been their favourite spot for years – the home to the candles in his eyes, a thousand soft kisses.  He sat for a while, watching the tide pulse and foam on the crumbled cliff below.  He smacked his lips and sighed loudly. The light burned in his eyes again, reflected from the burning car as it rolled past him mournfully and plunged into the cold ink.  He was almost surprised at how the car didn’t explode like they do in films.  They just smash and twist sinuously, the sound hanging over the wreck like a cloud of dust, detached somehow from the metal and petrol and bones and blood.  He smiled properly at last.  The sweat had receded, the butterflies had died and all that was left was him and his secrets.  He swayed like a drunk in the high coastal wind.  He was almost giddy with relief, until a vibration in his pocket snapped his stupor.  Another one was calling.  He knew what she would say, and his answer was always the same.

‘Friday night? I’d love to.’