Blind Sight

[pre]Blind Sight

Have you ever driven along cold country roads on a late autumn night? Stared blankly at the windscreen, subconsciously at your own reflection pressed upon the cold perspiring glass although perfectly aware of the moons presence overseeing all that could go wrong.

I live for the moon on nights like this.

You just keep your head forward, the pressure placed on the brake pedal as you roll gently downhill towards the horizon totally forgotten. On nights like this; anything could go wrong.

The number of times I’ve driven down this long autumn highway and prayed for the moon to give me an escape, for everything to go wrong, for anything to take me away from this scorpion mind and balloon heart.

But nothing ever does.

There’s no oncoming traffic, there are no stray animals desperate for a midnight stroll. The tyres don’t slip regardless of the harsh antagonistic extensions of my right knee upon to the brake pedal. I can see the tread scuffs from the soles of my pale blue running shoes across the cold metal of the brake pedal. These marks remain from the amount of times I’ve jammed my foot down with lethal force. My legs dream of running from problems, kind of ironic how far I would run just to be still forever.

Blue and red in the rear view mirror is all I have left to remind me of her. So much lost sleep, lost money, lost relationships. It was the girl or the coroner and in this state of mind, either would equal total satisfaction.

She was a blank screen, an out of tune band. She was both brilliant light and perfect darkness, the kind that comes just after the lights go out and before the covers come off. I loved everything about her, her eyes, her smile, the way her hair looked perfect which ever way she wore it.

She was a blonde last time I saw her, though it changed day by day.

What she turned me in to gave a whole new meaning to nocturnal, a way reading in the dark could never fix. She was like opening your eyes as you exit a cave or a dimly lit theatre. She was, and remains a u-turn back to every humdrum or ghost town you ever longed to escape. She was the red light, the bad news, every bead of sweat, every tear every stop, every fucking yield sign on this god forsaken road.

I’ve always had a thing for pathetic fallacy, from the gorgeous midsummer breeze sweeping in through the terrace that accompanied my first glimpse of her smooth pale skin and shimmering red lips, to the fog ridden bushland that aligns the bats and werewolves in my heart to the sights and sounds of this late autumn night.

How one woman could be so perfect is all I could ask myself as she descended from the stunning mahogany staircase of her fathers 3 story loft. This question although seemed rhetorical at the time has a definitive answer now. She is in no way perfect, no one can.

I first became acquainted with her father when I joined Tirelli and Schwarz law firm. The moment we met it was obvious to me at least that our connection would travel far further than that of colleagues. We both attended Chatford Law School, something only a small number of people in this monotonous city could say they have accomplished.

He was my tutor as I his protégé, he helped me through closed doors and glass ceilings never meant for someone my age. Moved me out of the commotion of the city and in to the safety and reliability of the suburbs. He spoke to me several times about the mishaps of his reckless daughter and all the pain she inflicted on him. I hated her before I’d even met her, which is why it was so surprising to finally see such an amazing woman calmly glide down the staircase that first night.

From the way she looked at me as she descended I could tell she knew it wouldn’t be long until she would be heading back up that staircase, this time in my arms.

It was a family dinner celebrating her parents’ 25th wedding anniversary, seeing as though I had made quite a connection with my boss as of late, I was deemed a member of the family to accompany he, his wife and of course their beautiful daughter to the favourite restaurant amongst our firm.

You could only imagine my disappointment when young Catherine announced she had fallen ill and would be departing before we had received our main course. That is, until she suggested I take her home, after all, it was her parents’ special night and it shouldn’t be ruined by John having to drive his daughter home. Despite his best efforts I insisted on accompanying Catherine home and eventually we made our way out to the car, John agreeing to take a taxi home with his wife.

I was bewildered as to why she insisted on me taking her home, after all, she looked perfectly fine and money for a taxi was certainly no issue so I asked her why she had lied to her father. She turned to me, gazing intently, almost squinting through the relatively thick layer of smoke that hovered between us. She continued to despatch smoke from her lungs.

“Well”, she began.

“You seemed far too nervous to think of something yourself.”

I was hardly satisfied by her egotistical response and so quickly snapped back “Well what made you think I would retreat home with you anyway?”

“Oh please Mr. Curran; I saw the way you looked at me earlier this evening.”

“And what way is that?” I replied.

“Like a fool” she sniggered.

“Like a bass Mr. Curran, just before that large mouth closes around the drifting lure.”

Soon I would be hooked.

With that she turned her head back toward the open road in front of us and took another slow engulfing puff of that cigarette, tossed it out the side not bothering to crush it out and let go a slow content sigh.

That night just went like a blur from there. As did the next, and the next, by Friday morning I knew I was under her thrall. Snappy responses and condescending names could never be enough to keep this girl down.

Long drives to cheap nights at every dimly lit hotel room this cities outskirt has to offer retained my position as her victim. She’d call me up from quiet suburban corners knowing too well that I’d be waiting to attend to her every want.

We’d talk on the phone a lot, she’d told me about all her past mistakes and how her father was bearing down on her with the force of twenty-thousand leagues. As usual I kept in close contact with John, stopping by his home on numerous occasions to discuss work or even just sit back and watch the game. Catherine and I exchanged faux pleasantries, desperately avoiding any suspicions John might have. It was during these periods I became deeply aware of the struggling relationship between the two.

Catherine told me of horrible arguments between the pair, some even coming close to blows. She was desperate to get out of there, constantly reminding me of the danger of living under the same roof as John. She told me of the millions of dollars waiting for her in her fathers will that was the only thing keeping her in that house. It was then that things became a little bizarre.

She started with these hypotheticals, imaginary situations, cute at first but the more she went on the stranger everything seemed to get.

“Would you kill for me baby?” was all she asked, and it’s all she had to. I was as easy to read as a Chaplin film.

She had me wrapped up from the get go, she was the trigger, I was the firing pin. Both of us set for destruction but only one with the capability to stop it.

So driving tonight, no end in sight, down this long cold autumn road laughing at how crazy I am, but even more at how crazy I was to stay with her.

We were well dressed but her timing was flawed, I met John in his office minutes before our arranged meeting. He looked distressed and pale as he handed me a wrinkled yellow envelope.

It was all I needed to convince me to change my life.

I live life only on the thought that my actions never reflected my thoughts, cruel intentions with unreasonable explanations.

According to the paper two shots were heard around 5 minutes later, a third a further 10 minutes afterwards. She was found a few feet from her father’s body, gun in left hand, sheet of paper in her right. Legal reasons prevented the media from printing what it said, but I knew. The words on that note may have spelled the end for her, but for me, they spelled millions.

And you know what the only thing worse than having that over my head?

To the cops, it spelt trouble.

He left me with a future; she left me with blue and red lights in the rear view mirror. Sometimes the girl just isn’t worth it; let’s pray we never meet in hell.[/pre]