Bodies In Flight - A Short.

The last sip tasted like shit, the empty bottle reflecting the screen of the old knackered TV set pumping 24 hour sales programmes into the room. It had been 14 hours since the crash, 12 hours since he learned the terrible truth of what had happened to her. Axis reached down next to his bed, a mass of pillows and blankets, with their linen half on half off, crumbs and tobacco and bottle caps were strewn across his mattress, the sheet hanging off the end of the bed, long overdue a wash, and grabbed another bottle. “Why the fuck not?”  he said to no-one. The crack of the seal on the new whiskey bottle made his spine shudder, and with a long deliberate sip he collapsed into the pile of pillows, and then the tears came again.

Interstate 54 was a long stretch of road, the sort of nondescript asphalt snake that meanders through countryside with not much to look at, a trunk road that takes excitable holidaymakers to the coast and exhausted lorry drivers between major towns. Nothing to see, just mike after mile of dual lane boredom. The show that night was wild, a sell out crowd and the most insane after party where Axis and the rest of the band were treated like conquering heroes. There were girls and booze everywhere, but he had her with him, Flora, his first love, his everything. It had been hard maintaining their 8 year relationship since the band took off, and recently he’d begun to drive separately from the rest of the band in his own car, so he could take her with him. She’d work merch and playfully flirt with the bar staff to get herself free drinks. Spending more time together had strengthened them again, they were back on track.

Shuffling around in the glove box she found their CD, a long broken-up band that played catchy indie love songs, which she had gifted him on their third date. The songs told stories of happiness and new love and they used to sit and listen to it together on long nights of drinking and smoking, her head on his chest, wordless. He thought it was perfect. He took his eyes off the road for a brief moment to put the CD into the player.

All he remembers is the blood. So fucking much blood. Glass shards in his hair and beard. He looked over and she was gone. He knew she was gone. He grabbed her wrist and prayed for a pulse. Nothing. The car was up a bank in a hedge and he clambered out. Then the blue lights came. Far too late.

The whiskey haze numbed any physical pain but he couldn’t get rid of the sting. He cleared his throat and begun to sing their song, he opened the pot and fumbled clumsily with drunken hands, pouring the little white tablets into his hand. He looked to the sky and said “Don’t go without me, I’m right behind you”. And then, nothing. Bodies in Flight.