Red sports car (Photo credit: Wonderlane)

He sees red on the hood of the car which is alright, the car is supposed to be red. It is supposed to look fast. It is so low that when driving it, one is practically lying down with ones rear end only inches from the asphalt speeding away below.

He sees red on her dress and that is alright too. Her dress was always red and much too tight across her chest. He is still waiting for the day it bursts open. He is sure she knows that.

However, he also sees red on the leather seats and that is not alright. It is not alright at all. She leans closer to him.

‘Are you alright?’ she asks. Her voice is weak behind the sound of the blood rushing in his ears. How dare she get anything on the seats? It was the first rule. The only rule that he could not forgive her breaking.

‘Get out,’ he says.

‘I think, I’m fine,’ she says, ‘but we should go to the hospital and have you looked at.’ The rushing in his ears is building.

‘Get out!’ he shouts.
‘But-’
‘Now!’ He can barely drown it out.

She purses her lips and makes a swallowing motion. Then she gets out of the car, her glittering handbag under one arm.

He slams the door after her and starts the motor. It seems to work fine, but the hood will need a good deal of fixing after its meeting with the crash barrier and he will need a new headlight. As the word headlight goes through his brain he realizes that there is also a rather bad pain going through it. He backs the car out onto the motorway and is mildly puzzled that the road also looks red. He moves a hair away from his forehead and his fingers come away sticky. As he wipes his hand off in his trousers, darkness creeps in from the corners of his eyes.