Collision (short story)

Two of them lived opposite each other, though they knew it not.

Nadine was a young mother in her mid 20s - three children, the older twins - both girls, and her boy, young Zeb, three years old and struggling with an infection, the first of his young life. He didn't know what pain was, and had been crying, and whimpering, and asking his Mummy to take it away, but all she could do was ease the discomfort, use the medicines the doctor had prescribed, and be there for him.

Of course, that was the rub: the being there for him. Her husband had tried to comfort Zeb, but Zeb had wanted Mum. So, good trooper that she was, she had been up most of the night, trying to doze when she could, and hoping Zeb would settle into a deeper sleep, so she could go and get a few hours decent rest before going in to the office. She had taken a couple of days off already, and her co-workers were sympathetic, but they were stretched without her - they all were, since their line of business had become so cut throat ("competitive", had said the new boss), and they had two deadlines approaching. They needed her job as well to cover the mortgage since interest rates had gone up, wanting to stay close to her husband's aged parents rather than living further out, where housing prices were lower.

But, anyway, Zeb was stretched out in a carelessly angelic pose, and she smiled - at the wonder, and at being able to sleep, equally,

And then she cursed - quietly. Some idiot on a motor bike was revving the thing, and Zeb was stirring and whimpering.Miserable, worried, exhausted, she bent to her young son.

Across the road, Angeline didn't curse the bike rider - she envied him. She'd had plenty of sleep - her charge, her elderly father, had gone to bed early. She was younger than Nadine, in her early 20s, but her father had chosen to have children somewhat late in life, and then ill health had set in earlier than usual. His wife, her mother, had passed in a car accident, and it had taken Dad's will to live. He was careless of himself, and it had come to her, the youngest daughter, the one without a family of her own 'yet', to put her life on hold, and move in to make sure he ate properly, did not become unkempt, and had some company in the evenings, when the long hours sapped even more of his vitality. She'd cut her Uni course back to part-time, but she'd lost interest in it anyway. When her father did pass, she would put her course on hold if she could, leave if she couldn't, and travel - anywhere, any way would do.

To Angeline the bike's weird rattle as it hit the rev limiter spoke of freedom, the capacity to move on and travel and, above all else, be free. She also stayed awake after the bike woke her, daydreaming of escape - and of getting up the noses of her older, supercilious siblings.

For his part, Don didn't know either the problems he had caused, nor the noise he had created when he missed the gear. Not quite profoundly deaf, he was exhausted. A close friend from the deaf community had been suicidal, and he had spent the night with her, being there, calm, supportive, until eventually she was out of danger. Then he had permitted himself to worry, as he rode home, about what he would say to his bosses the next day. Though he didn't need the job for the money, the pleasure of it was what got him through each day.

And so the three of them, lives colliding in a brief moment of noise, sailed with the planet beneath them into a new day.


Copyright © Kayleen White, 2013 (where this date is different to the year of publication, it is because I did the post some time ago and then used the scheduling feature to delay publication) I take these photographs and undertake these writings – and the sharing of them – for the sake of my self expression. I am under no particular illusions as to their literary or artistic merit, and ask only that any readers do not have any undue expectations. If you consider me wrong, then publish me – with full credit, of course :)