The engine of the old, worn-out Ford Mondeo died down with a growl, leaving silence in its wake. Headlights dimmed and faded entirely as the car heaved a weary sigh and became a lump of metal and rubber, parked on the gravel drive of a suburban house identical to the houses on either side. Darkness reigned for a moment as a pair of eyes struggled to compensate for the sudden lack of bright yellow saturating everything in sight.

He fiddled with the cigarette lighter. Flicked it on; a tiny point of red staring back at him from the hollow tube. Flicked it off; the red light winked out.

“You don't smoke,” a husky voice said from the passenger seat. His left eye twitched, but he kept his attention focussed on the tiny red light. Flicked it on. Flicked it off.

“Don't ignore me,” the voice growled. His throat contracted, the pale skin bulging out as peristaltic muscles forced rising bile back down his oesophagus. His hand started to shake at it fumbled with the cigarette lighter, flicked it on, flicked it off, flicked it on, flicked it off.

He moved his hand away, clenched his sweaty palm into a fist and held it by his side. Took a deep breath and blinked. Twitched his head to the left in silent acknowledgement.

“That's better,” said the wolf sitting on his passenger seat. It licked its lips and its eyes flashed for a moment as it turned its head to face the window. “Nice house,” it said.

You're not real, he thought. Wasn't going to dignify the animal with a verbal response because a figment of his imagination ought to know what he's thinking.

The wolf sighed, a short wuff of exhalation. “Real,” it muttered darkly.

They sat in silence. His fingers tightened against his palm. He stared at the cigarette lighter. The wolf stared out of the window.

“I won't do it,” he said, mouth dry, tongue thick and heavy against his teeth. His head dropped a little and he chastised himself for speaking out loud. I didn't come here to...

“Why did you come here?” the wolf asked, its ears twitching as it turned its shaggy head back to him, to regard him with dark, clever eyes. “This isn't your usual haunt.”

I dont--

I came here to--

It's none of--

He should be at home, slouched across the sofa with a bottle of Jack, watching old re-runs of House and late night talk shows. He should be at the bar, or wandering home from it, hands tucked inside the sleeves of his jacket as he braced himself against the biting wind. Kicking a can across cracked pavements as he neared the housing estate. He should be passed out in his bed covered in crumbs from the leftover pizza in his fridge.

“Why are you here?” the wolf repeated. Its eyes were cold. He couldn't meet its gaze.

“Don't answer it,” said a second voice from the back seat.

“Silence!” the wolf snarled. Its head snapped around and its muzzle pulled back to show its teeth as it let out a growl that almost physically pulled him back in his seat, caused his heart to race wildly. Satisfied with the state of affairs at the back of the car, the wolf turned its attention back to him.

“You're a prey animal at heart,” it said, almost fondly. “That's what makes this so easy.”

This is a game to you, he thought, at the same time as he thought, you think this is easy?

“A game?” the wolf said. “Interesting.”

No elaboration seemed forthcoming as the wolf regarded him with its calm gaze and he wiped his palm on the side of his jeans and counted the bricks on the side of the house and the thing in the back fidgeted, wanting to speak.

He flicked the cigarette lighter. Left it burning.

“I couldn't sleep,” he said. Better to distinguish between his words and his thoughts than try to clear out the mess in his head and attempt a coherent enough answer.

“That's never been a problem before,” the wolf said.

He rested his elbow on the steering wheel, dropped his head down into his palm. Pressed fingers into his temple, trying to ease the pressure. Wished they would both just go away.

“I ran out of whiskey,” he muttered, squeezing his eyes tightly. A small red dot danced on the surface of his cornea. He reached out blindly and turned off the cigarette lighter.

“There are sleeping pills in your bedside drawer,” the wolf said, its voice becoming lower with every poor excuse.

He pressed the heel of his palm against his forehead. His headache was getting worse. It's your damn fault. Why won't you leave me alone?

The wolf's gaze was hungry as it centred on his jugular. He didn't have to open his eyes to know that; it was all in his mind anyway. “You know why it hurts,” it said. “Things would be easier on you if you didn't try to resist me.”

“I won't do it,” he said, cutting back to the point. “You can't make me. You're not real; you can't make me. That's why we're sitting here, having this conversation.”

Raising his head from his palm was like crawling up out of wet dirt. He opened his eyes and glanced at the wolf sideways. “You can't make me.”

The wolf watched him appraisingly. He stared back. It blinked and got to its feet.

“When you make up your mind, you'll follow me,” it said. The door handle on the passenger side clicked and the door swung open. The wolf jumped down from the seat and padded out into the night.

He flicked the cigarette lighter on. Flicked it off. Dropped his arms to his sides and hung his head. He could hear the thing in the back seat moving; broad feet shifting against worn upholstery as it braced itself, and a muffled thump as it landed just shy of the gear stick. He didn't watch it climb gracelessly into the passenger seat; kept his gaze on the steering wheel instead, tracing the grooves in the soft rubber with his eyes.

“You did-” it tried to say, just as he cut it off with:

“I don't want you to talk.”

He tore his gaze from the steering wheel, spared a glance for the forlorn looking rabbit in his passenger seat, focused determinedly on the steering wheel again. The word 'horn' had worn off the button in the middle, but you could still see its shape in the raised parts of the metal.

The rabbit's ears drooped. Its nose twitched. It flicked its tail and shuffled its feet.

“I don't want you to sulk either,” he said. It looked at him.

“What am I supposed to do then?” it asked.

He gripped the steering wheel with both hands, brushed over the 'horn' button with one thumb. “Go away,” he said, his throat tight.

The rabbit thought about it.

“If you really wanted me to go away, I wouldn't be here,” it concluded. The rabbit had always freely admitted that it was a figment of his imagination. That was one of the things that made it hard to push it away.

His breathing was loud in the empty, confined space of the car. The rabbit seemed to be waiting for him to say something. Aren't you going to- he tried. I know you're-.

He ripped his left hand free from the steering wheel and tore open the glove compartment. He groped around inside for a moment and pulled his hand back, fingers wrapped around the barrel of a semi automatic revolver.

He set the gun on the dashboard, equidistant between him and the rabbit, who twitched nervously.

“You've never fired a gun in your life,” it said.

“I've never had a reason,” he replied. The gun was prominent in his field of vision, drawing his gaze away from the streak of dust in the middle of the windscreen, so he looked back down at the steering wheel and followed the veins on his hands until they dipped too far beneath the skin to be visible.

The rabbit was looking forlornly at the glove compartment. It hung open vulgarly, revealing a mess of CD cases and sweet wrappers. “These things are never full of gloves, like you'd expect them to be,” it said.

He reached forward and slammed the glove compartment closed. “What does that have to do with anything?” he asked. I thought you were here to talk me out of it.

“Don't ask me why I'm here,” the rabbit said. “You imagined me, not the other way around.”

“I lost my job!” he snapped, his voice a harsh whisper. Raised voices were a danger; the sky was beginning to lighten and he was sitting in a car by himself with a gun in plain sight.

“People lose their jobs every day,” said the rabbit. “You hated your job. It got in the way of sitting around, feeling sorry for yourself.”

“I was evicted,” he shot back, the pain in his head returning with a vengeance. He swallowed, dry throat muscles rubbing together painfully. The steering wheel burned under his hands.

“The house was too big for you,” the rabbit said. “It reminded you of-”

“Leave me alone.” he whispered. He should have brought some whiskey. Liquid courage. It would make them easier to ignore and maybe the gun wouldn't feel so damn heavy in his hands. He'd handled it before, in his flat, turned it over in his hands. Trying to squeeze the trigger had been like trying to sever a vein; too much resistance, too much effort required for the final, fatal push and not enough willpower.

“Whiskey doesn't solve everything,” the rabbit said quietly.

“It solves enough,” he muttered. “The gun will take care of the rest.”

The rabbit considered this, and looked up at the gun, and looked at his fingernails leaving grooves in the sides of the steering wheel. “You won't pull the trigger,” it said.

He breathed in sharply. Grabbed hold of the gun and thrust it underneath a magazine he'd been meaning to throw out. The rabbit laughed.

“You won't pull the trigger,” it said. “You can't even stand to look at it.”

From the cover of the magazine, a cosmetically enlarged blonde met his eyes. He sensed amusement hidden in her sultry gaze; she was laughing at him. They were all laughing at him.

“I'll do what I have to,” he promised. The sky was lightening and soon the sun would be rising. He would make his decision before the break of dawn; there was a tidiness in that that satisfied him.

“I hope you make the right decision,” the rabbit said. It shuffled around in the passenger seat and hopped over to the door, which sprang open like it had for the wolf. “You're a good man.”

The door swung closed behind it and he was alone.

The sun rose exactly one hour later, and he made his decision.