only a few can ever experience. I pride myself on being one of the lucky few. The figure grips the door handle, sweat collecting on his fingertips as he gently pulls. The woman’s desperate screams are muffled by cloth, her flailing body gently restrained. The light inside oscillates and is no more. Although, if I am being perfectly honest, I would say that I use this… avocation as a way to escape the tedium of society. For it may surprise you to know but a postman is not quite the profession I had dreamt of. My marriage, suffice it to say, has lost a certain spark. However, every so often, I can simply fade away into my own world, a world exposed. What can I say, I’m a hopeless romantic. The figure exits delicately, looks back with a soft contempt and evaporates into the shadows. The car leaks a fragile, pathetic whimper, enshrouded in darkness. A faint trickle of blood rolls down the leather seat and a tear hangs precariously on her jaw line. An exquisite rain falls and dances on top of the roof. The little evening breeze howls over the hill and the leaves rustle as the car screams.Trees line the hillside and throw shadows on the ground beneath which remains elegantly bare. In the town below, a woman sits in her house in solitude; a gentle shiver runs down her spine and the bedside light flickers. I suppose I had time to kill. It was then that I strayed from the norm of my own given routine, that is, to disappear completely and return to reality, at least the reality beyond my own endeavours. However it appeared that on this particular occasion I was incapable of doing so. For it is rare in one’s life to witness what one would ascertain to be pure perfection, yet this is what I perceived when my vision cast back to the woman, her face angelically lit by the instruments on the dashboard. Her perfection, my love, was to be indefinitely preserved.
17 32
Made with FlippingBook - Online magazine maker