He stared at what was left of his car, his 3-week-old Mercedes SLK, the British Racing Green body now battered beyond recognition.
One of the indicators was flashing and as Michael watched his pride and joy sinking into the murky water he yelped, the fading yellow light growing dimmer by the second.
He’d always hated quiet and now he hated it even more. He wasn’t sure where ‘here’ was, what had brought him to that place and, more importantly, what he was going to do next.
Having driven on autopilot, following the bends of the American landscape he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen life; buildings, cars, people. He had no clue which direction to start walking, if in fact that was he was going to do.
He’d stopped crying by now and started laughing… loud, unnatural, like something out of a Stephen King movie. He kicked the ground with his Gucci-shoed feet as if he were a child demanding a new toy or sickly treat – his toy now lying at the bottom of the lake.
As he walked in the direction he was sure he’d come from, assuming there to have been life there, wherever ‘there’ was but stopped when he heard a noise. The sound, human he thought, came from a few yards ahead so he walked towards it and as he approached it, he made out the noise, a cry, and in the moonlight saw the kick of tiny feet from the side of the road.
Photography courtesy of morguefile.com.
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