Untitled Short Story

Untitled Short Story

Charles Hudson Bäck

            The stone black tarmac spilled out inch by inch under the lone headlights of Ted Forrester’s police cruiser. A cold sweat ran down his body as a sense of urgency began to tighten around him. The moon and the stars were his only companions along this road, and this far from the city, their brightness befriended him. The night was cloaked around the earth as a blanket, dark and plagued by humid air. Were it not for the rickety air conditioning of the ancient cruiser, Ted would be suffocated.

            As the minutes rolled by, his urgency peaked, and a sense of loneliness took hold of the patrolman, and he reached for the radio dial in the dusty hardwood console of the car. His fingertips gripped the smooth sides of the metal knob and turned it until the faint twang of an acoustic guitar squeezed through the static of the vast country.

            A slow, sad tune whispered to the numerous woods and farms that quickly fled by. His eyes fixed onto a sepia polaroid that sat in front of the analog gauges behind his tan brown leather steering wheel. In the photograph he held one arm around his beautiful wife, and the other around his young daughter, who sat on his lap in a rose Sunday dress. A small smirk found its way onto the stubbly face of the patrolman, but quickly turned into a wince as his thumb ran painfully over the picture.

            Tricolored lights spilled into Ted’s vision deep through the night. His throat tightened and he clamped his hands into the steering wheel, fingernails tearing into the leather cover around it. He slowly pulled his car to a halt on the side of the road, squeaking as he hit the brakes. He flicked his keys and pulled them from the ignition, and began pondering his bravery. His fist was sewn around the door handle, but he didn’t move.

            Ted yanked the door open with his sweaty palms. The first step from the car was unbearable, but every inch was more difficult, putting what felt like tons atop his feet. He waded through the tall summer grass before reaching an envoy of police cars and ambulances. Bystanders flocked to Ted to speak to him, touching his arms, sending morose messages through glossy eyes. He acknowledged any addresses, but did not comprehend it.

Ted’s feet carried him to the edge of a medical stretcher, a black, hateful plastic bag sitting atop it. His shaking hands reached for the cobalt zipper splitting up the middle of the bag. His fingers and thumb trembled and gripped the zipper, pulling it down. Tears and a broken smile found their way over Ted Forrester’s face, as he was finally able to brush the hair behind the ear of his beautiful wife again.