by Shaun Allan
I wrote the address and slipped the envelope in, licking it carefully. I'd once read a story of someone who'd cut their tongue on an envelope and had baby cockroaches growing in the wound from where their eggs had been laid in the glue.
The post box was only a short walk away. I'd hoped the fresh air would blow the cobwebs away from my mind and clean out my soiled thoughts, but it didn't. Pushing the letter into the slot of the post box, I paused, looking at his name. It would be the last time I'd see him. Not that his name was him personally, but it was the closest I would ever again get.
Sin.
He didn't like his surname. Our surname. I didn't blame him.
Back at the house, I made myself a coffee. Sin and I had employed a cleaner to look after the place whenever we weren't there, but keeping the fridge stocked with fresh milk was something we'd neglected to ask her to do. Luckily, I took my coffee strong and black. Like my men, I used to joke back when I still knew what a joke was.
The cup steamed. It still remained untouched when it had cooled and the limescale in the water had floated up to form a film on top.
Time.
I walk upstairs. I'm not sure why I don't want to do this in the kitchen or in the living room. It seems more fitting to be upstairs in my own room. I hope that Olivia, our cleaner, won't be too distressed, but I can help with that. A little nudge now that will lay dormant until it's needed.
Do I lay on the bed? Sit on the floor? Stand in the middle with my arms out? It takes me a moment to wonder, worry almost - as if it actually matters. I sit on the bed. I may as well be comfortable, if only for a moment. I rest my arms on my legs and close my eyes.
A jump. I suppose that is really the only way. The only way to be sure. I wonder how people decide the method they'll use. Do they draw pieces of paper out of a hat? Stick them to a dart board and blindly throw? Perhaps I'm not that imaginative.
I can only think of one way. One that won't hurt others, that is.
My car is in the garage. It's barely been used for so long, I am worried that the handbrake might be seized. It isn't. The car, old but more reliable than any person I've ever met (and cheaper to run), starts first time. It beeps a hello to me, which is actually the warning alarm telling me there's not a lot of fuel. I have a 30 minute drive ahead of me. It will be enough to get me there.
I press the button for the stereo, wanting noise to distract me from my course but, after surfing through radio stations where the songs and ads claw through my ears like rabid dogs, I press it again. I enjoy the resultant silence.
My mind wanders, but that can't be helped. Parts of me want to turn the wheel, either to return me to the house or to force me across the central reservation and into oncoming traffic. I let them fight it out amongst themselves, but ignore their demands. I have my goal set.
The Humber Bridge. Once the longest single span suspension bridge in the world, apparently. Probably still one of the most expensive tolls, though. I know people who are afraid to cross it, fearful of it collapsing or a freak wind blowing them off into the River Humber. They'd rather drive the two hour round trip through Goole than the two minute crossing over the bridge.
It doesn't bother me. Even now, when all their fears are going to come crashing down upon me. I'm doing what I must.
I find it funny that, to park my car, I must cross to the other side, to the viewing area, and then walk back. There's an area on this side, but the walk to the bridge is further, and my legs might have more control over me than my hands, causing me to veer off my course. I have to pay the toll.
There used to be, before the bridge was built, a ferry that crossed the river. I suppose paying the toll is almost like paying the ferryman. Chris De Burgh would be pleased, especially with the pollution and colour of the Humber giving it a kinship to the Styx.
I park my car, locking it. Habit, of course, as it really doesn't matter if it's stolen. I won't be needing it. The walk to the bridge is longer than I expected. I pass a man on a bicycle and a couple. They're coming off the bridge rather than going on it. I'd rather not have them close to me. I don't want to upset them, or scar them.
Even now, I can't help myself.
I wait for a lull in the sparse traffic. I climb over the barrier, brushing the dirt, rust and flakes of paint from my palms. I may as well be clean as I do this.
It will hurt, I know. A lot. I may scream.
A random thought occurs to me. I should have an epitaph. A final word. Like the captain of the Titanic asking for more ice in his drink.
Name's Joy. I make people happy.
And it's killing me.
The world is going to have a good day. A happy day. A JOYous day, in fact. I suppose it's my leaving present. A pity I can't gift wrap it.
I feel something warm in my hand. I know what it is. I can't help but smile.
I put out my hand in a loose fist and slip my thumb under the two pence coin.
Flip.
And...
Catch.
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About the Author
As creator of many prize winning short stories and poems, Shaun Allan has written for more years than he would perhaps care to remember. Having once run an online poetry and prose magazine, he has appeared on Sky television to debate, against a major literary agent, the pros and cons of internet publishing as opposed to the more traditional method. Many of his personal experiences and memories are woven into the point of view and sense of humour of Sin, the main character in his best-selling novel of the same name, although he can’t, at this point, teleport.
A writer of multiple genres, including horror, humour (and humor) and children’s fiction, Shaun goes where the Muse takes him – even if that is kicking and screaming.
Shaun lives with his wife, daughters, cats and fish. Oh and a manic dog. Though his life might, at times, seem crazy, he is not.
Honest.
You can read more from Shaun at:
http://www.shaunallan.co.uk
http://singularityspoint.blogspot.com
http://www.facebook.com/singularityspoint
and on Twitter at: @singularityspnt and @SinNotSinful
