I’m a hitchhiker.
My first ride was on January 4th, 2006. I was fifteen years old when my heart first stopped.
My home was no refuge for me that winter night, though I can hardly say it was most of the time; and the earthy smell you get along the woods always masked the coppery scent of blood from my dad’s lashes.
This, the bite of winter’s chill overcast by a deafening silence only ever broken by the wind and the crunching of natural debris beneath my feet was an old friend in the worst of times, as when the frost slivered in, so too did dear old dad, with a fine supply of liquor for his belly.
This time was different though, for the cold began to seep in, my very bones going numb, and my companion had a visitor, piercing through the darkness of my midnight sanctuary. A blinding beacon of headlights indicated I was not alone; and as much as I tried to convince myself; I wasn’t opposed to it.
My thumb soared upward,and,and the car’s light illuminated my somewhat thin, and slightly bloodied figure. It skidded to a stop, its engine purring like a tabby, and the door of the backseat slowly opened; black paint gleaming in the moonlight.
I cleared my throat, hoarse though it was, and slowly climbed into the back. It was comfortable, real leather, and a warm, almost cinnamon-like scent permeated everything. It smelt like my idea of Christmas, one with Mom.
My illusion of comfort was shattered as I strapped myself in, and hesitantly analysed my surroundings, a rabbit in a pitfall trap. I still can’t explain why, but the concept of simply not getting into the car never dawned on me. What did, however, was the appearance of the driver. His hair was slicked back, his outfit was extravagant, as if he had just left the Met Gala. A dark purple tuxedo enveloped him, red highlights shimmering like fresh blood under the yellow light of the car’s interior. He turned his head, and I felt my heart go silent in fear. His wasn’t featureless, despite the layer of flaky, grey skin wrapped like bandages across his face, the outlines shone through. Large, almost comically wide eyes were outlined by the skin, a face splitting smile cut through it, and most strikingly, where his nose should be, was perfectly flat.
I heard a slight cracking, and pried my eyes from the visage before me, terrified that I had sat on something and hence angered the monstrosity. I found nothing beneath me, and when I looked back, I found the source of the noise. He was leaning towards the back seat, the skin covering his mouth torn open, rancid breath that reeked like death and rotten fish spilling out, as I felt bile rise. It spoke, flakes of skin falling from its mouth. Its voice was slow, and deep and dark, yet it scraped against my ears like nails on a chalkboard.
“Help.” The monster croaked.
“Help.. and you live another day.”
===================================
I could do nothing but freeze, some primordial instinct buried in my psychology convinced me that if I didn’t move, if I didn’t even dare to act alive, that the predator before me would forget I was there. I considered that perhaps it was right, as the car hummed along for what felt like hours.
I considered it plausible right up until the car stopped. As it did, a dark shape took form to my left, coalescing slowly, sitting on the opposite seat. It looked vaguely like a man. I then heard the cries, before I could panic further.
I gazed out the window, and before me, was a most dreadful sight. A woman stood sobbing in a dimly lit street, the Eiffel tower in the distance behind her. Her once elegant clothes were stained by dark blood, her eyes were black, and at her feet, lay a young man. His stomach was riddled with red blotches, bullet wounds. The door opened before I could reach for the handle, and I did not dare look at the Driver for confirmation. Some innate understanding came to light in my mind, and I knew what I was to do.
“What happened?” I had scarcely realised I left the car before the words spilled out.
Miraculously, the weeping woman responded, her sobs quieting, and her Abyssal eyes locked onto mine; not even the street light reflected off them. She spoke, her accent was thick, though the words, to my surprise, were in English.
“Who are you?! Is my son not enough for you monsters?”
I spoke, slowly, trying to calm her.
“Please, ma’am. I’m not here to hurt you. I uh, I’m here to help. Please tell me what happened.”
The Black-eyed woman regarded me with suspicion, though seemed to calm somewhat.
“My darling Piere.. oh baby.” She sobbed softly.
“He kept trying to bring us fortune, borrowing money at every turn, promising each loan would be worth it. They finally caught up to him. I Found- I found him here. We used to get ice cream on this street, when he was a boy.” She sniffled, her black eyes scrunching up in a silent sob.
“I’m sorry. But..” I swallowed as it suddenly struck me, like lightning conducting through copper my mind connected the dots.
“Piere wouldn’t want you to spend forever crying. I think he’s spent enough time waiting.”
She looked up at me, and as her face was finally illuminated by the street light, I realised her pale skin was barely corporeal.
“Piere?” She whispered softly, dark eyes registering the vehicle behind me, and its open door.
“Come, Mama. It would be rude to keep our chauffeur waiting.”
The sleek black car drove off into the Parisian Night, and The Midnight Driver kept his promise. My heart beats to this day, though I swear to any who will ask, I died on January 1st, 2006.
==================================