Downpour

Downpour

The black Impala breaks the silence as it speeds down the lonely road in an attempt to outrun the steel grey clouds stalking behind. The dull yellow headlights slicing the darkness as it moves so it washes over the car in an inky black tidal wave before creating an invisible wake that stretches on forever behind the car. Inside the car the moonlight reflects in the hazel eyes of the Impalas young driver. His eyes, heavy with the onset of sleep, are locked on the barely visible road but his mind is elsewhere.
Why did the stupid bastard go and die so soon? I was happy, he thought dreamily, very happy. I am successful, a wealthy stockbroker. I have a house, well a mansion really. I get all the women I want and this beautiful car. He smiles smugly to himself at the thought but the smile fades as he continues his reflection. Dad...
Behind the Impala the storm has caught up and has begun rolling over the top of the vehicle, threatening to engulf the world in a flurry of wind, rain and lightning. The iron line marching skilfully onto the battle field, waiting for a battle cry to ring out and start a war.
The driver gives a long sigh, pushing the thoughts of death from his mind, as he slowly drifts between a world of darkness and a world filled with girls, money, cars and...
"What's wrong with me? Wake up!" His own voice startles him and he is torn from that world and dropped back into the darkness.
"I need to keep driving. If I don't keep driving then I won't make it to his funeral. His will clearly states if I want anything that I must attend his funereal. Maybe I just need some music."
With a tentative hand on the steering wheel, he fumbles for the dial of the Impala's old cassette radio, finding it and turning it on with a faint mechanical click.
Bzz...Bzzz Bzz...Shhh...Bzzz Shhh...
The old radio replies with a jumbled static as though it is too tired to even think of finding a station.
The driver sighs, returning his foggy mind back to the infinite road unfolding before him. Electricity crackles in the steely sky above as the storm clouds, having caught the Impala, start to engulf the dimly glowing stars and the frowning moon. Plunging the already dark world into an even greater darkness and sapping the only glimmer of light remaining. Darkness so thick that it seeps into every crack and crevice, sticking to every inch of the body and providing no hint of salvation.
I hope this storm holds off, the driver hazily thinks, at least until I reach the town.
Lost in thought, the driver is completely oblivious to the car slowly veering towards the edge of the road. Alongside of the road is a deep ditch filled with large rocks that maliciously annihilates anything that comes in contact with them. He is jolted violently from his thoughts as the Impala's wheels bounce wildly across the gravel bank at the side of the road, skidding close to the edge of the bank. If the car slides only a few millimetres to the left the car and driver will fall into the cold hands of the rocks. He fights the pull of the gravel before regaining control of the car but not without a tremendous effort.
"God!"
The driver's hoarse voice slices through the perspiration in the stale air of the cabin. He pauses, Breathing. Just breathing. After a minute he lets out a sigh and shrugs.
"I need to concentrate. I can't go dying on my way to my father's funeral."
Another sigh.
"I just need a cigarette."
He fumbles around in his pockets for a packet but only finds a few coins and a receipt for petrol and a Mars Bar. Great, he thinks to himself, no music and no cigarettes.
He rolls his eyes but stops when he sees the glove box.
"Ah-ha! I always keep a packet in the glove box."
With one hand on the steering wheel and both hazel eyes locked on the road, the driver starts to lean over, careful not to overbalance the wheel or lose sight of the infinite road. His hand brushes the cold leather of the passenger seat and, for a second, he imagines that his hand is resting on a cold corpse, just for a second, the very thought sending a shiver down his spine. Pushing the thought from his mind, he continues his search for chemical relief and a saviour from his own mind. He leans closer to the glove box. Closer and closer until the handle is just a couple of centimetres from his fingertips. The car swerves for a moment and the driver realises that he is still in control of the black Impala. Regaining his senses he looks towards the glove box ready for another attempt. The silver handle glares at him as he reaches over once again, this time his fingers wrap around the cold handle and the glove box opens in a gaping yawn.
"Finally!" The driver pauses reflecting on his triumph over the evils of multitasking while driving.
Who says men can't multitask? He thinks to himself smugly as he reaches for the contents of the glove box. I just opened a glove box while driving! In the dark! And now I'm going to find a packet of cigarettes in a crowded glove box! While driving in the dark!
His hand slips carefully into the open glove box as if, at any minute, the glove box will spring to life and devour his fingers in a premeditated ambush. At first it feels like his hand is in a nest of objects all pointing in different directions. Intertwined so it just feels like one crazy object with no purpose but, as he explores further, he slowly finds familiar edges and reassuring corners. Soon pens, pencils, chewing gum wrappers, crumpled parking tickets and stray coins all take shape beneath his hand. Still no cigarettes though. He leans closer so his whole forearm fits into the glove box and his hand dives deeper into its open jaws. Fingertips searching with ferocity and his eyes set with determination on the road ahead; he finds the corner of the box.
"I knew I had a packet."
His fingers stretch to grip the box but only the very tip of his fingers find the edges for him to pull it towards him. He tries to pull the packet out but each time he tries the box only moves a fraction of a millimetre. Tiny beads of sweat rear their cool heads on the drivers face, already twisted in frustration, as he continues his desperate stab in the dark.
Outside the car, the storm clouds have enveloped the night sky, glaring at the dark shape as it speeds through the dark night. Threatening to dazzle, deafen and drench the world below in a raucous, apocalyptic display of angry flashes, volatile wave of bellowing thunder and an endless flow of watery missiles. In one foul charge, the heavens erupt into a war with the world below. Rain drops lead the advance, lightening explodes across the battlefield as the thunder provides cover fire between rounds. The whole sky has started a brutal and relentless assault on the black Impala below.
Frustrated and still struggling, the driver retracts his hand from the glove box. My only hope, he realises, is to let go and lean over. Carefully he positions his spare knee on the wheel and gingerly takes his hand away. The car gives a slight wobble but the driver's knee stops the car before it becomes too unruly. Satisfied that he is now a competent knee-driver, he resumes his search for the cigarettes. As he leans his knee follows, undetected. With a better position in the car he knows there will be no trouble to get the packet out of the glove box. Just reach in and grab it. His hand disappears into the open glove box for a second time. This time his whole palm can rest on top of what he hopes is the packet. Greedily he snatches at it. Click! He draws his hand sharply back, dropping a bloody pocket knife on the passenger seat, as his knee slips off the wheel all together.
The car jerks and the driver grabs at the wheel with one hand. The other hand flails about helplessly, spreading blood around the interior of the car. Running from his middle finger to his thumb is a deep scarlet gouge. Tyres struggle for grip on the wet road as the driver turns the wheel in one direction then the other, the headlights dancing across a tall dark figure in front of the car. He slams the brakes on, locking them, but the cars only response is to slide dangerously across both lanes of the soaked road. The driver's frantic turning causes the car to swerve in a dangerous rhythm and soon the car spins around. The Impala aquaplanes across the asphalt in a blur of headlights and brake lights. Inside the car the driver's limbs fly about just as wildly as the car itself, as if the car and the driver are one. Disorientated the driver can do nothing as his Impala heads towards the only tree he has seen that night. Twirling closer and closer until the driver's door slams into that tree creating a bone crunching noise and sending the car and the driver into eternal silence.
The heavens erupt in a brilliant white as lightening courses through the dark clouds like the blood in the driver's veins. Rain strikes the wreck of the Impala wrapped around the tree like a small child clinging to its mother. As if the tree is a long lost lover whose tender embrace enticed the car to stay for ever. The driver can feel pain all over his body. His head feels like it is in a microwave, his chest feels like shards of glass are coursing through his veins and his leg feels like it's on fire, even though it's gone. Is this the end? The driver questions himself. Am I going to die here under this tree? Thunder pounds through the air as if in reply to his thoughts. As if the storm itself wanted this all along. Wanted him to die. He can feel himself slipping away, feeling his heart beat slow and his breathing becoming laboured. He stares at what's left of his Impala and he knows he is gone. The drivers hazel eyes stop searching and lock, cold and hard on the shattered windscreen. Looking but not seeing. It truly is the end.