The woman sped down the highway, grimly focused on the road in front of her. Five miles per hour over the speed limit, then ten, then fifteen, going faster and faster, as though chased by an invisible force. Why the rush? She was late for work, yes- but today, she had a more pressing problem. An unwelcome passenger, whom she could not wish away.
“Just look at those two yellow lines,” the man sitting next to was saying. The woman took a deep breath, tried to ignore him. "They're all that divide you from the other side of the highway. What kind of barrier is that supposed to be, now? Just two little yellow lines, standing between you and infinity."
She could feel her heart pounding; she let out a sigh through clenched teeth, her breath quivering.
"There's nothing stopping you from driving over those two little lines, you know. It would be so easy," the man continued. He paused, then gave a small smile. Perfect white teeth, in an expression perfectly devoid of feeling. "One small turn of the wheel would send you straight into oncoming traffic. Then there would be a smash, and...” he opened his hands in a gesture that seemed to say poof, “...silence. The struggle, the pain... over, so quickly.”
The driver declined to respond; she narrowed her eyes, trying to shut out everything but what was directly in front of her vehicle. The man, dressed immaculately in a black suit and shined shoes, with neatly combed dark hair, looked over at her with a mild air of disappointment. She was pretending not to see him. Well, let her. They all did that to begin with. Slowly but surely, she'd take notice. He chuckled.
“Come on,” he went on. “Let's be honest, here. We both know it's inevitable. The final turn of the wheel, the end to everything. You can even imagine it happening, can't you?” He saw her looking over at the cars on the other side of the highway as they sped along in the passing lane. He didn't know the woman, and he didn't need to. Her mind would already be connecting his simple taunts to everything she regretted about her life, without a single bit of effort on his part. It was how he worked; how he made his living, if you could call it that.
The driver declined to respond; she narrowed her eyes, trying to shut out everything but what was directly in front of her vehicle. The man, dressed immaculately in a black suit and shined shoes, with neatly combed dark hair, looked over at her with a mild air of disappointment. She was pretending not to see him. Well, let her. They all did that to begin with. Slowly but surely, she'd take notice. He chuckled.
“Come on,” he went on. “Let's be honest, here. We both know it's inevitable. The final turn of the wheel, the end to everything. You can even imagine it happening, can't you?” He saw her looking over at the cars on the other side of the highway as they sped along in the passing lane. He didn't know the woman, and he didn't need to. Her mind would already be connecting his simple taunts to everything she regretted about her life, without a single bit of effort on his part. It was how he worked; how he made his living, if you could call it that.
To her, he would be saying things like: that job you hate where you always end up working late hours anyway, your broken family, your kids living with their father, despising you... you've got what, 40 or 50 more years of this road left before you meet the same end anyway, don't you? End it now.
All he had to do was remind her of the closeness of the oncoming traffic, and the ease with which she could cross the gap and meet it head-on.
The woman made an effort to turn her eyes back to her side of the road and succeeded. She turned the music up and tried on a smile. The man in the black suit grinned himself, and his was genuine, because he knew she could feel his presence. All she was doing was whistling in the dark, and he felt quite certain that this was her last drive to work. I never thought she'd do something like that, her friends and neighbors might say. And maybe they'd have been right to think so; maybe she'd never thought anything of the sort herself until the day she just went and did it.
All he had to do was remind her of the closeness of the oncoming traffic, and the ease with which she could cross the gap and meet it head-on.
The woman made an effort to turn her eyes back to her side of the road and succeeded. She turned the music up and tried on a smile. The man in the black suit grinned himself, and his was genuine, because he knew she could feel his presence. All she was doing was whistling in the dark, and he felt quite certain that this was her last drive to work. I never thought she'd do something like that, her friends and neighbors might say. And maybe they'd have been right to think so; maybe she'd never thought anything of the sort herself until the day she just went and did it.
Until the day she'd been visited by the man in black. Until she'd listened to his voice, the same voice that whispered in the ear of every man with a gun in his mouth: pull the trigger, that urged every woman with a noose around her neck: kick away the chair, that coaxed everyone who had ever stood on the edge of a cliff to step forward. The whisper of the man in black that the French have called "l'appel du vide" - the call of the void.
And when, ten minutes later, there was a major head-on collision a ways down the highway (must have been a drunk driver, some of the passerby thought), nobody noticed a man in a neatly pressed black suit walking away from the smoldering wreckage. Probably, nobody even saw him.
And when, ten minutes later, there was a major head-on collision a ways down the highway (must have been a drunk driver, some of the passerby thought), nobody noticed a man in a neatly pressed black suit walking away from the smoldering wreckage. Probably, nobody even saw him.
No comments:
Post a Comment