His knuckles are in knots, tied around the steering wheel. Skin pressed white.
Bracketed on either side by a blurred monotony of pine that extends beyond imagination, he stares along the flat road that lays in perfect symmetry before the path of the car. He presses his foot and the turbo draws in breath and begins to whine. But no speed can escape this forest. He is light caught in the event horizon. A feather in a hurricane. The only way is through. And the forest will not be rushed.
Perhaps it is the tumor in his brain, but his vision begins to wobble. The colour shifts. There is a vertical bruise across his sight, where he has stared at the same black, rolling towards him for hours. He winces, rubs his eyes, not looking at the road.
But it's still there when he blinks away the tears and returns his attention. It will end when it ends. He knows, he's done it before. But he doesn't have long left. A few months at most. So this journey has to be worth his while. There is no guarantee he will be coming back this way.
At least, not in this body.
Paddy Dobson
5th September 2020