So, here’s another Free Writing piece. Much darker tone than the first one, but hey. Enjoy, I guess?
The sun beats down onto the old, cracked concrete. I swear, the carpark should have at least a few people in it, even if it is the hottest Sunday since records began, or whatever. Instead, all I can see is endless nothing with a closed supermarket looming in the distance like a forgotten giant. The way the concrete cracks at random intervals reminds me of those salt flats you see in pictures of Nevada.
I’ll probably never go to America.
They said that the sun would get the pavements up to a high enough temperature to cook an egg on today. How do you like your eggs? Gritty! Honestly, it’s a stupid method of describing the temperature to people. Just say ‘It’s going to be really hot, wear shorts.’
God, I can feel sweat pouring off me even though I’m shaking. I know, objectively, that it’s ‘warm as balls’ as my dear old father would say, but I’m freezing. I look down at the reddish-brown stains that litter the hot ground and my shoes.
What temperature does blood boil at, anyway? I wondered.
I just had to run my mouth. Again. I had to be the smartass because I’m the one who gets the universe and everyone around me is just a dumb mouth breather. My dad always told me that my loud mouth and quick brain would get me into government one day, if I could apply myself. Otherwise, he guaranteed me it would get me in a ‘whole heap of shit.’ His words.
I sucked in hot, dry air, trying desperately to ignore the very intense pain in my abdomen. I could feel the sticky, warm flow of blood across my hand that I clutched the… afflicted area with.
Don’t think stab wound. It is a stab wound, but don’t think it. I urged myself to stay calm.
Mickey was saying something to me, his face a smug sneer of derision, but honestly he could’ve been singing ‘And All That Jazz’ and I couldn’t have told you.
It was funny; I’d always idly day-dreamed about the futility of existence. Thought myself the real Nietzsche enlightened scholar. It never impressed Katelyn, or anyone else, and now that I could smell the tang of my own life ebbing away, it didn’t feel so philosophical.
One of Mickey’s buddies shoved me. I could smell whiskey on his breath, mixing with metallic smell of me leaking out. I wobbled, but surprisingly I didn’t fall. Why was no-one in this stupid fucking car park? I refused to die alone in a Tesco car park. In this heat, the flies would be on me in an instant. How undignified.
“Please…” I croaked, holding my free hand out in a placating gesture.
Mickey and his friends mocked me, repeating my single plea back to me in high pitched voices. They sounded muted though, like an argument through a bedroom floor.
My legs were starting to tremble. Tears stung my eyes. There was nothing I could do by this point. I was a statistic. At least the car park probably had CCTV or something like that.
I wondered if Katelyn would come to see me in hospital. Maybe she’d fall in love with me as I lay stoic in a coma. Then I’d wake up, and she’d be the first face I saw, and she’d suddenly realise that I was what she wanted all along. She’d realise how much she really cared. Her face would crumple
into a mask of joy as her mascara ran down her face with relieved tears. She’d move in with me. We’d be happy.
As the second thrust of the knife slid between my ribs and punctured my lung, I realised that was probably never going to happen.
Maybe she’d cry at my funeral instead. Maybe she’d realise what she’d missed out on.
But I doubt it.
Blood begins to fill my lung, trickling out of my mouth. Mickey’s is the last face I see, not hers.
The sun keeps shining in a clear blue sky.
Hope that was good. It felt good as I wrote it, in a strange way.
Thanks for reading.