"The Journey"

He remembered the exact day: his eighteenth birthday. A jade-green Peugeot 206, black interior, five doors, brand new; the one he had wanted. It was his first car, the first vehicle he had ever owned, and one of his favourite possessions.

The drive was taking longer than usual, and the car was low on petrol. He was heading towards his father's house, on the other side of town. There was a bridge to cross before he got there, over a fast-flowing river. He threw the car into third gear, turning a corner a little sharper than he should, and the car skidded. He turned the wheel into the skid, finally finding grip and regaining control of the car. The roads were covered in a thin film of black ice, invisible to the naked eye, and potentially lethal to a reckless driver.

The night was clear. Orion glinted down from among the stars, the moonlight casting long shadows across the streets, down the sides of houses, into bedroom windows. Every few seconds his breath ghosted in front of him in a cloud of steam, then slowly faded to nothing.

Stopping at a junction, he looked around for a minute. Either side of him, the streets stretched off into the night, splashed with colour from the windows of the dimly lit houses, and their fairy lights. Soon the streets would be alive again, filled with the warmth and the laughter of children playing in the snow. But tonight the wind lashed at trees, battled against windowpanes, even found its way into the car, biting at his lips and fingers. For him, this winter was even colder than the last.

The left turning would take him into the town centre. Shops, bars, cafés, socialising. Absolutely not what he wanted, not tonight. Turning right took him through the lazy suburbs, past identical rows of houses, and inevitably towards his father's house, across the river. He turned right, almost without thought. One after the other, streetlamps cast eerie shadows over his face. Tight-lipped and tense, feeling almost unable to control himself, he watched the streets pass him by on either side.

Then one house caught his attention. Single-storey, small front garden, with a few cars parked outside, and light and life radiating from within. Shutting off the engine he sat across the street, watching as someone drew the curtains back and pointed at something on the path outside. Almost totally hidden in the darkness, he doubted they could see him.

This was Thomas's house. His best friend ever since he could remember. The one he could always turn to, rely on, trust. His best friend up until two years ago.

Where his own life had gone rapidly downhill, Tom's had soared into a flourishing career and almost instantaneous popularity among his colleagues. Now his nights were taken up with work, meetings, or social events. And those evenings he did have free were spent with his girlfriend. Never with his best friend. The last time they had spoken had been three weeks ago, when he had called at Tom's on impulse only to find him in the midst of a party.

"I didn't think you would want to come," Tom had said when questioned. "Socialising isn't really your thing, is it?"

He knew he should have said something, done something, showed his feelings. But he had simply nodded dumbly, unable to voice the hurt within him. He had turned and left without a word. Tom hadn't followed him.

Emptiness had soon replaced the hurt and anger, and that was what he felt now. Devoid of all emotion, cold, rejected. Suddenly needing to get away from the overwhelming memories that haunted the street, he started the engine and pulled away, with one last glance at the house. He thought he saw someone at the door, but never turned back. The steering wheel was cold beneath his fingers, which, for once, were not trembling with suppressed emotion. He felt calmer tonight than he had in a long time. The moon was suddenly obscured by cloud, and the streets now relied on artificial light for visibility.

Another junction; this time he took a left. Turning right would have led past the café where he worked, where he should have been tonight. And, eventually, that winding road through the suburbs would lead him to Nicole's house.

Nicole. His first real love. They had spent endless days in each other's company, laughing, talking, loving each other beyond belief. It had all been perfect - or so he had thought.

He was too hurt to ask how long the affair had been going on.

"I'm so sorry," she had told him - as though those few words could somehow soothe the pain of her deception. "It was never meant to end this way."

His reply was flippant. He had slammed the door in her face and made a resolve to call her the next day. But that resolve quickly faded, when he watched her climb into the other man's car, and leave with him. He'd sat, staring at nothing for the rest of the night, then gone to work the next day as though he wasn't bearing a broken heart and shattered dreams.

It all made sense now: the long weekends away, working so late in the evenings, the occasions she hung up the phone when he walked in the room.

"Stop it," he whispered to himself, watching his breath vanish before him. He shouldn't torture himself with the past. It was over now; there was no way to change it. Nicole's love for him was gone, as was his hope of a true family, one that would love him for who he was, and would not try to control or change him.

The inside of the car was cold, but he didn't turn on the heat. The incessant whirring would disturb his dream-like state, and shatter the silence he had become accustomed to.

He could see the bridge now, just behind the next row of houses. The high- tension cables glittered with Christmas lights, painstakingly put up by workmen the week before. He turned the last corner, and looked down the street, at the river glistening and shimmering in the moonlight.

He left the car by the roadside, with the driver's door open. The keys still hung in the ignition. Perhaps someone would take it. Looking either side of him, he was relieved to see nobody. The solitude was soothing.

If he turned and looked toward the town, he could see thin wisps of smoke rising from chimneys, blending together before evaporating slowly, lazily. On the other side of the bridge, if he looked closely enough, he could probably see his father's house. The house he had grown up in, where the self-hate had taken root, where his parents had helped it grow. He didn't bother to look.

Stepping up to the guardrail, he leaned far out, watching the water rushing below him. He lifted himself slowly onto the bar, swinging his legs over so he was standing on a small overhang of steel. He balanced precariously, feet slipping on the metal. The wind was stronger now; it threatened to give him that fatal push over the edge.

This was what he wanted: to be in control of his own actions, to be doing something because he wanted it, not to please others.

He felt calm, happy, content. He let his body fall forwards until he was barely holding on. It would soon be over. Closing his eyes, he imagined himself falling. Taking a deep breath he allowed a soft smile to touch his lips. His mind was clear; he would soon be at peace.

Feeling nothing anymore, he opened his eyes and looked to the sky, the light rain falling like tears on a pale face. And he let go.