C/W: suicide, language

The van trundled along like the black embodiment of death. Behind it, bright yellow light spewed out the backlights. The sky was eerily blue, covered in melting fog. Under the bridge, a deadly drop awaited.

A man was walking along the road, suit and tie pulled up under his chin. He didn’t try to avoid traffic, in fact he walked right into it. Something between now and this morning had killed his paralysing fear of death.

He saw the truck coming at him like a predator, and he put his hand up, as if to tame the wild beast. The man behind the wheel stared at him in astonishment, then he started honking.

HONK! HONK! HONK!

‘Move out the way! Are you insane?’

The man didn’t move, in fact he stopped all together. The driver didn’t know if he meant to taunt him or torture him. He had a blank expression on his face, completely emotionless.

‘Move.’ The driver said again, he was less sure of himself now and the words died in his throat, just a whisper.

The man on the road did move this time, he put a hand in his pocket and looked at the watch on his wrist.

The driver was getting infuriated, his blood was pumping red hot through his veins, popping them out in racetracks across his forehead. He honked the horn again:

HOOOONK! HOOOOOOONK!

He leaned out the window. ‘I’m going to fucking kill you if you don’t move!’ He shouted, he mimicked a strangling fist at the man. ‘Do you want to die, pisstaker?’

He was getting dangerously close. If he didn’t brake now he might hit the man whether he wanted to or not. Still grunting, the driver hit the brakes, but then the man started running towards him. He couldn’t not hit him, he realised, it was either that, or a journey off the bridge.

The driver was afraid now, so he took his foot off the brake. The man continued to run towards him, nothing but blank determination on his face.

‘What the hell?’ The driver murmured to himself.

There was nothing to stop the impact when it finally came. The initial collision thundered through him, and the air bag smacked him in the face. Through it he could hear the crunching bones, see the blood painting his windowscreen. It made him nauseous.

He closed his eyes until the jolting of the car stopped and he knew it was all over.

He’d just killed a man.

He was struck totally dumb. After three seconds of stupid calm, he kicked open the door, holding his hand over his nose and mouth against the stench of fresh blood.

He loomed over and towards the dead man, who was splayed out with crooked limbs in his path on the road. He hesitated before he approached to inspect the body.

The man was impeccably dressed and groomed, apart from the blood now gushing out a head wound and staining his shirt. He didn’t look like a man who would ever want to die.

But, that was just the surface. Upon closer observation the driver noticed something that gave him a chill, a permanent grin plastered across the man’s face, the first ounce of emotion he’d ever seen on him.