Suicidal Dreams
by
Paul Steven

HK Patterson thanked the waitress who brought him over his third cup of coffee. He stared hard at the empty chair opposite him; someone was late, very late. Spooning six large helpings of sugar into his coffee, he hung the spoon tantalisingly over the sugar bowl considering for a second or two to add another when, suddenly, the café door opened. HK swivelled around to see who had just entered, no one he knew. Another twenty minutes crept past before he finally decided that she was not going to show and left the café.

Aimlessly he walked the streets, feeling like a stranger in his own city. He watched the lively crowds go about their Friday night ritual. Couples walked hand in hand or wrapped around each other would knowingly stare at him as if he had a sign around his neck saying-Stood Up: Again!

How had he let it happen? Time after time he had been hurt. God, he knew he was no oil painting, that the opposite sex might even find him peculiar looking, but he wished just once that someone would peel back his repulsive outer layers and find an incredibly caring person caged within. It was this harrowing thought that HK faced everyday, that no one would ever look. He thought this one would have been different. He had thought wrong.

Climbing the concrete steps, salted tears streamed down HK's face. He knew he was a loser, a sad depressive loner. Thirty-two years old with not a friend in-sight. Those who had taunted him throughout his life were right; he was a joke, the butt of a thousand jokes. It was time to finish the pain. Pulling himself over the metal railing of the footbridge, he looked down as the screaming lumps of metal passed below. Their cries of obliteration hollered up to HK, mocking him to jump. And so he did.

The traffic stopped screaming, the wind felt cold as it rushed over his face, it was as if he was flying. The driver saw him at the last second, the same way a mouse notices a declining hawk: too late. The windscreen exploded, showering the passengers of the car. It swerved into the inside lane and channelled into an oncoming vehicle. Metallic tombs entwined together as they hurtled towards the side of the motorway. Brakes howled behind them as frantic drivers fought to stop their chariots. Scattered debris littered the lanes of the motorway. Those that had managed to stop climbed from their cars and rushed to help. Traumatic cries for help came from one car, quietness emitted from the other. Minutes later the first sounds of the emergency vehicles filled the air.

"Tch, What a mess," said the voice," Someone will have to clear that up y'know."

"I never expected people to die, only myself"

"That is some handy work though, quite impressive for a first effort." The voice said.

"What do you mean first effort?"

"Oh you'll see," said the voice," Try going for the white car next time, should take more of them out, if you do that."

"Are you serious, I mean I'm dead right! And anyway who are you?"

"Just a friend." Said the voice.

"Friend! What kind of friend tells me to aim for a different vehicle to get a higher score?"

"The only friend you have," said the voice," See you soon."

HK Patterson bolted upright in his chair, just as the café door swung open. He swivelled round to see who had entered, no one he knew. Someone was late, very late. Another twenty minutes he would give them and then, well then they could go to Hell for all he cared.

The End

Courtesy of TheWeirdcrap.com