THE END
The white Ford flew along the highway, a dazzling blur beneath the sun's unrelenting haze. Inside, the man held the wheel savagely with his right hand; the other hung numbly at his side, a small trickle of blood dripping from it to the seat. He pressed angrily on the accelerator every few seconds, making the car jerk forward in a movement not unlike a hiccup.
His heart raced along as if it were chasing the car; the hand at the wheel turned into rubber as he increased its grip. Thoughts tripped around his brain, enticing his memory with the silent damnation of his conscience. No one would find out. Surely he had cleaned up quickly and thoroughly? Dear God, he thought. It wasn't me. I never did it. Not me .....!
A car wormed past him on the narrow strip of road which curved around a lonely marsh. He shoved the accelerator to the floor. He must not let the driver of the other car see the soft bundle under the grey army blanket.
He saw it, he saw it, the man said to himself. It's all over. Help me, Father!
He jerked his head around 'til he could see the blanket on the rear seat. Suddenly the smell of blood and gas seemed to explode in his lungs; he slammed on the brakes and lunged out of the car, retching horribly in a ditch by the side of the road.
He couldn't go back to the car. Even here in the fresh air he could feel the smell of stale blood encompass him, smother him. His pulse pounded in his temples; his brain reeled. He began to run into the marsh. His feet sank into the damp, wet carpet of moss and grass, stumbling over lifeless tree stumps and dead bracken. He was again reminded of death; the nauseating odor of the bundle seemed to weave its way to him and permeate his body. He fell into the imaginary clutch of its power; slowly, silently, he sank, dead like, to the ground.
He was unconscious. The blinding light inside his head dimmed down to become a rifle reflecting the sun in his eyes. The child stood by him, tugging his sleeve, begging him to let it hold the rifle. The woman stood facing him. They were arguing again. As usual, the child was on its father's side. the woman shouted.
'No, you are absolutely NOT taking that kid on your hunting trip!'
The man smiled, sneering at her. He always won in the end. He told her, 'Your lipstick is smeared.'
She lunged at him, pushing him down, fighting him. The rifle dropped at the child's feet. The man cursed. The woman caught his arm between his teeth and bit it with all her strength. Nothing mattered anymore. Blood sprang from his arm and stained her face, but she hung to him, claiming his blood as her own. The child screamed and picked up the rifle, chanting in a sing-song voice Kill her, kill her, kill her....
It played with the rifle, and the bullet pounced out. The child reared back and sank to the ground.
The woman's grip slackened. Her own blood joined that of the man's. And she died.
...
The sun began to set over the marsh. The man stirred for a moment, then opened his eyes. His wild dream had left his limbs fatigued and useless; blood trickled from the deep narrow wound in his arm, dying the grass a rich purple in the sunset's reflection.
A wild cat smelled the odor of blood and ran towards its source. He was hungry. He saw the man and sprang.. the man screamed.
So there it is. I got an A on this and the prof had it typed out for all her students. Silly me, I should have insisted on a stipend. Oh well, I was only 18 ....
