The International Writers Magazine Lifestyels:Loving and Leaving

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We Are Driven • Michael Halmshaw Cruising along, just above the speed limit as usual. Me and Rachel shooting through the streets without a care in the world. She looks especially beautiful today. The traffic lights keep turning red but no-one's trying to stop us. We should probably slow down, but ah, who cares.

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Maybe the blurred faces you see scowling as we blast past, but certainly not us. As we come round to a straight I take my hands off the wheel and leave the steering to Rachel. I turn around and grab the box of cigars I have lying in the back seat. I take one out of its case and tear off the plastic wrapping. I pull the cigarette lighter out and hold it to the end of the cigar for a moment.

There's a brief crackle and sudden injection of heat. An orange haze materialises on the tip for a moment then fades away. Smoke languorously rises, gently caressing the ceiling and then sliding smoothly outside. I rest the cigar just slightly to the centre of mouth my and there I clamp down on I with both sets of teeth - the Hannibal pose. I even wear the obligatory beaming grin as I gaze absent-mindedly at Rachel. I'm lacking a few automatic rifles, clichéd henchmen and a general on my tail for crimes I didn't commit, but you can't beat this feeling, blazing down the road with the one you love, sumptuous smoke in the air, everyo- Crashing straight into a car which came out of an unmarked junction, our man didn't even have time to exclaim a noise indicating surprise. The car bonnet concertinaed like an accordion, flecks of paint scattered about, and sparks flew in random directions. The front headlights crumpled like old paper and a tire was ripped out. Our man had fitted airbags and as his head jolted forward, these shot out and smashed him back into the headrest, knocking him unconscious. Oblivious to the carnage he'd participated in, he bounced about like a sleepy rag doll in his seat as his car skidded violently to a halt.

Our man's bleary eyes opened two days later, and as they gradually focused on the tan-brown-stained hospital ceiling, he heard a familiar voice: "Blimey, you gave us all a right scare. The men in white said you'd be fi-"
"What about Rachel?" he cut in. Anxious tears welled up in our man's eyes.
An awkward pause ensued.
Raising his head, he looked at his friend and already knew the response. More tears fell down his face. His friend attempted to offer some consolation, but what words could he possibly use? He knew Rachel meant so much to him. They'd been together for years.
"There was nothing they could do to save her. She was in no state to carry on pal. They're turning her into scrap later today."
"Those BASTARDS!" our man exclaimed.

© Michael Halmshaw - December 8th 2004

Michael is a Creative Writing student at Portsmouth University
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