The glare from orange streetlights and the courthouse fades behind him. Tires sing. Then hum. Then crunch. Clear night, crescent moon. Perfect viewing. He pulls over by the picnic table in the former county park, abandoned for a decade. The pickup is there already. He never knows if the guy enjoys it or just wants his money. Doesn’t matter.
Seven Augusts ago, William pulled into his driveway after work, already writing the report he’d finish at home. The heat slapped his face when he got out and hurried inside.
William cuts the engine, gets out, and checks the night sky. Nothing yet. He goes to the table and takes off his shirt.
He kneels on the bench, reaches across the splintered wood, and cranes his neck. C’mon, c’mon. He hears footsteps behind him.
That August evening, he opened his laptop at the kitchen table and dove in. After a few minutes, he remembered he’d promised his wife spaghetti for dinner.
Finally a meteor. He grips the edge of the table. The first lash lands across his back. He swallows a groan. His heart pounding the tabletop, he braces for the rest.
He was stirring the marinara when his phone rang.
“I’m on my way home, William.”
“Dinner’s about ready, honey.”
“Sorry I couldn’t get Emmy from daycare today. You remembered, right?”
William counts seven lashes. When the last one lands, he fumbles to button his shirt with trembling fingers, then faces the man, who wears a mask as always. His choice. A water bottle sits on the table now. The man has already loosened the cap.
“Lighter this year,” William says, gulping air. “You’re not sick, are you?”
“Don’t worry about me. Your scars, probably.”
William drinks. He’d hate to find somebody to take the guy’s place. The dark web gives him the creeps.
The man tucks the whip under his arm and holds out his hand. William puts the cash in it. The man fans the bills then shoves them into his pocket.
“You still haven’t told anyone?” William says.
The man grunts. “Think I’m crazy?”
The man steps forward and puts a hand on William’s shoulder. He lifts his hand when William winces. “Seven years,” the man says.
It was seven years ago, William thinks. It was yesterday. It was today. It was tomorrow. “Eight next year,” he says. “I’ll be in touch.”
After the pickup pulls away, William sits in his car, closes his eyes, and focuses on the fire raging on his back.
“Of course I remembered to pick her up. Right now, she’s—” He dropped the phone into the marinara and ran out to the car in the driveway. Heat shimmered off the asphalt. He flung open the rear passenger door and screamed.
Tires crunch, hum, sing as William drives from the park to the house. He doesn’t remember the name of the people his wife sold it to after the divorce. Doesn’t matter. He stops under a streetlamp. Staring at the asphalt driveway, he can still see the waves of heat from that day. He presses his back to the car seat and rubs it up and down until his eyes water and his ears ring. That night he sat out back asking God to let a meteor hit him. Now he watches one streak above the sulfur glow of the streetlamp.
Image: A fiery meteor heading towards the planet from Pixabay.com
Ah man, what a way to start the day. As a parent, this is one of my darkest fears. I live in the south of Spain and every year there are incidents like this. I cannot begin to imagine, and don’t want to, how the parent would feel, but you’ve made an excellent attempt. Thanks
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Thanks for commenting. I don’t know how people who actually experience guilt like ever get over it. I imagine they don’t.
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Hi Dave,
Your imagination is a huge part of your writing. However, you show in this short short that you can do understated brilliantly.
Not one piece of this is fed to us but every bit is as clear as day.
Not a word wasted!!
That is a skill that few can do
Brilliant!!
All the very best my fine friend.
Hugh
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Thanks, Hugh. I was going for understatement and appreciate your comment.
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A terrible story, in the best possible way, no lightness in it at all and so there shouldn’t be. The scenario is one hundred percent horror and in quite a small word count you have captured that and hit the reader right between the eyes. Brilliant work. Thank you – dd
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Thanks, Diane. There are no vampires or ghouls, but it’s definetly a horror story.
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David
The never ending guilt and the seeking of some odd form of justice via punishment is brilliantly presented. I do not think there is any way out for him except expanding his soul and do good for others, even though it will never resolve the ledger in his mind. He will never understand that it was a terrible accident–nor can I fault him because I think I would have checked out if I had that weight on my soul.
Great work–And here’s to a Great Veteran’s Day for all–we all suffer out own wars.
Leila
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I appreciate that, Leila. The idea of him “expanding his soul and do good for others” is an astute observation. If there were to be a sequel to this story, that would be the shape it should take..
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Hi David
I believe he would find that in the after passing of time. He might begin to consider the beatings self indulgent. But it is a whopper of a thing to get straight with.
Thank you, it is tremendous writing.
Leila
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The action brings to light a terrible guilt, comforted by the slashes of a whip—vivid images and well-written.
“The dark web gives him the creeps.” Great line (and funny), considering the context of this seemingly deranged person.
I like the relationship between the whip’s holder and the sufferer. It makes you consider how the other person is damaging himself too, whether he knows it or not. A helluva way to make a living, but there’s a market out there.
It reminded me of 8mm with N. Cage. But it took a different turn. I know people are walking around with mountains of guilt like the MC.
Great story!
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Thanks, Chris. I think the whiper and the whipee are both lost souls in their own way. And that’s an idea for another story…from the whiper’s POV.
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So powerful. All of us have done things or not done things that torture us forever. But would have been hard to imagine this level of torture – until you did for me.
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]Than you. I mis-placed my reply meant for you.
I agree. We all carry guilt, some more horrible than others. This incident must be one of the worst.
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David
You know how to build suspense and tension in a piece of writing! Rhythmic, vivid sentences and bright, alive details are here.
Great job turning the meteors into metaphor/s. The whole piece has the stark (inevitable) quality of a Greek tragedy. The gods teach us to suffer, that’s for sure; no one knows why. But there is still the unity of all things.
Dale
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Thank you, Dale, for your insightful comment. A meteor shower can be a thing of beauty…or just the opposite in this case.
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A perfectly crafted gut-punch of a piece. Not a word that is superfluous. Excellent.
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Thanks, Steven. As I refined the piece, I think I took out almost as much as I left in. Glad it worked for you.
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I agree. We all carry guilt, some more horrible than others. This incident must be one of the worst.
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