Tonight had gone fantastically well, I thought to myself. My sales presentation on globalisation of independent process had left every fucker in the auditorium flabbergasted and envious of my preternatural finesse for business. I gaze at my reflection in my rear-view mirror of my new Bentley z12, “You brilliant bastard!” I scream loud enough to hear myself over my new Boss 101v speakers that play Dmitri Shostakovich’s 7th Symphony louder than bombs. I drop another pill and wash it down with a swig on the bottle of Dom Pérignon that I took from the meeting, and then I put my foot down on the pedal and watch the speedometer fly past 100 and up.

I had been driving for about thirty minutes on the long and winding road that slithers through the countryside like a gigantic tarmac snake, racing like some drug induced madman, foaming at the mouth like a wild dog, I was going home. I had been gripping so hard onto the wheel that my hands had gone numb, or perhaps that was the drugs taking effect? I take another pill and another look in my rear-view mirror, my bloodshot eyes staring back at me, the sclera looking like white and red road maps and my pupils looking like collapsing stars. My thoughts wander back to the presentation, how impressed the partners were, how professional I sounded, how great I looked in my Valentino suit. And the look on that prick from accounting, Jack Walker’s face, when CEO Mark Millen patted me on the back for a job well done.

“Walker, that fucking joker,” I smirk. I drop another pill, wind down the window and scream over the hills and into the night, a banshee in a Bentley, dressed in the finest Italian suits completely out of my mind on narcotics.

Fifty minutes into my journey and the fog covers the road like a ghostly veil. I am unable to see anything. My headlights stretch out into the night like an open pair of angel’s arms, searching for hope in the darkness. I notice that my Shostakovich compact disk has stopped and the silence starts to seep into my head, I hear the rapid beat of my heart and swear to God I hear the neurons in my brain cracking like popcorn. The thought materialises in my head that I must end this silence before my mind folds in on itself like a wet paper bag. I turn to the backseat keeping one hand on the wheel, looking for my Gustav Holst: The Planets compact disk. I needed Jupiter to extinguish the flames of drug infused madness in my skull. On the backseat is a copy of Dante’s Inferno and some cheap pornography. I find the album and turn back to the wheel, in that second I see a reflection of light and what looks like a human shape directly in front of me. The event unfolds in a heartbeat and I drive 120 miles an hour into this glimmering shape.

The sound of the impact could only be described as a crack, a thud, and a splat all happening simultaneously. After applying the brakes, my car spins 360 degrees in the road and then stops still. I sit there for a moment to let my brain process the event, but all I can do is gaze hypnotically at the splash of blood and tissue over the windshield, I see a bunny and a sad face, I chew my lips and taste blood.

As I step out of my car onto the road, my eyes follow the track of my headlights that shoot through the fog and down the tarmac in front of me, they point directly towards the object I hit, illuminating it as if my headlights were saying, “Look! Look what you just did!”

I tell them to eat shit and mind their own business. I reach into my breast pocket and take another pill. I wipe the blood from my numb lips and slowly walk down the road towards my object of impact. The closer I get I notice colours, yellow, a high visibility jacket, blue jeans and a lot of blood. It is apparent now that I have hit a human being, I pick up my pace now and I start to panic, in my throat I taste the sickly flavour of duck and seaweed wraps from earlier.

The sight of what is left of Mr. Blue Jeans makes me drop to my knees and vomit so hard that I feel like my eyes are going to pop out of my skull and roll down the road like a pair of crazy marbles. I try not to look again; it’s painfully obvious that he is dead. His short grey hair is slicked red with blood and gore, and his jaw hangs off his face like a busted old gate. His eyes gaze into mine; they are black and dead like a shark’s. There is vomit on my Valentino suit.

I take another pill and reach into my pocket for my phone. The road is silent, if nowhere was a place, me and Mr. Blue Jeans would be in the middle of it. I had not even seen another car for about forty minutes into my journey. However, I still have signal on my phone. It then dawns on me that what has happened with Mr. Blue Jeans and I will ruin my flourishing career, it will destroy everything. I imagine Walker with the guys from the firm in café Nervosa, laughing about me, and mocking. Walker, he will take my job, my future as partner.

I clench my fists and stare back at Mr. Blue Jeans, and then I make a deal with him that this will be our little secret. The headlights start to give me their opinion again, so I smash them in with my fists. I drag Mr. Blue Jeans by his feet towards my car, I think bits of him fall off and his body twitches. I manage to get him into the boot of my car without much hassle. However, my £1800 Del Valente golf clubs are ruined. My Valentino suit is starting to look like a Jackson Pollock.

I drive for about five minutes, I had dropped two more pills now and the night sky looked more like a pulsating purple orb, a black hole that was compacting in all space and time. The Rapture.

I take a left down a tight country road that is barely big enough for the Bentley. It’s bumpy and I apologize to Mr. Blue Jeans. I vomit again and I cannot seem to find my Holst compact disk. I am taking my passenger to the large woods which I pass everyday on my commute into the city. They always look so peaceful and ambient.

I finally arrive on the outskirts of the woods, it was a difficult journey as I had previously smashed the headlights in for being a pair of know-it-all bastards and the night was now at its darkest. Thick clouds covered the moon and the night was silent and freezing cold, it felt as if Mr. Blue Jeans and I were the only two people in the whole universe.

After removing him from the boot of my car I dragged him down into the woods. I found a torch in my boot which made it a lot easier to navigate around the vast wooden maze. I took one of the last of two pills I had left. I felt as if my brain was on fire, my teeth were vibrating and the trees gossiped about me as I passed. They knew what I was doing. When I had found a suitable spot, I let Mr. Blue Jeans take a rest. I then dropped to my knees and began digging with my hands like some crazed animal. I couldn’t control myself. I dug for hours. The ground was cold and frosted; it had that dense earth smell that reminded me of playing as a child, it reminded me of fireworks and Guy Fawkes Night.

When I had finished digging the grave it was roughly seven feet long, three feet wide and three feet deep. It was still a pitch-black night. I dragged and rolled Mr. Blue Jeans into his grave and then began pushing the dirt back in over him, I notice I had ripped off a few of my finger nails whilst digging. Then, out of the corner of my eye I saw him. Walker. Those fucking headlights had warned him and now he was here to expose my misfortune so he can usurp my partner position at the firm. I leapt up and bounded off into the field in which he stood, rabid and ready to rip his heart out and bury him next to Mr. Blue Jeans. But on arriving at said destination, I found nothing but a scarecrow. Obviously I had made a gross mistake. However, Walker’s putrid taste in suits somewhat resemble this shabby bastard's outfit. I chuckled to myself.

I returned to Mr. Blue Jean's grave to find it completely empty. He was gone, vanished. I scratched my head with my nail-less fingers and dry heaved. Had I gone completely insane, I pondered to myself. I decided to walk back to my car and take my last, final pill. I dribbled and laughed to myself on the walk back to the Bentley; occasionally screaming into the night, screeching like a rusty hinge on the gates of hell. When I got back to the path the car was gone. I was laughing so hard I could barely stand. However, I continued walking back up the small country road and then finally onto the main road.

I was starting to notice a throbbing sensation in my hands and fingers. In my head I could hear a faint rumbling. It got louder until I could make out the sound. The sound was not a figment of my imagination, it was a car. I hobbled out into the middle of the road and began waving with my torch to slow the car down. It sounded as if it was speeding up, but I could see no headlights. A familiar sound also grew louder along with the oncoming car, it was Holst’s Jupiter. As the car sped towards me at an alarming speed, I raised my torch to just make out the jawless, muddy, decimated face of the driver, and a pair of red burning eyes blighting me from behind the wheel.

I closed mine and remembered something my father once told me, “If you bury secrets, all you get is dirty.”

Community content is available under CC-BY-SA unless otherwise noted.