We’ve all seen the signs. Mundane reminders that on most occasions, go unnoticed because as individuals, we understand our own limitations or choose to push them to make up time. In this scenario, I was the latter.
This is a part warning, part apology. I can’t change what happened, but I can at least shout my experience from the rooftops to make sure others don’t succumb to a similar fate, or worse.
Tiredness is not a feeling; it’s a person. A thing. An entity of calculated malice whose intentions are to cause harm both physically and mentally. Sure, you can feel tired. I’ve felt tired for the past 37 years. But Tiredness is different. It’s unforgiving, unapologetic.
I was a lorry driver working for a logistics company in the South-West of England. Plymouth, to be specific. One major client was located in Edinburgh, a journey just short of 500 miles, a journey made up of mostly motorways and A-roads, and some of the most scenic roads within the UK.
It was my favourite route to take, ever, and I jumped at every job that gave me the opportunity to visit Edinburgh again. Plus, the portion of the M6 that runs parallel to the Lake District is as stunning as it is practical.
I had picked up overtime as I was a bit tight for cash after amicably separating from my wife. Divorcing at 26 was never my plan, but understandably the job ate away at the time I could have been spending with Nancy.
Anyone who knew me would have been able to vouch for my ambitions to drive lorries from the age of 7, ever since my father took me to some sort of Lorry Fest. I was infatuated from the moment I sat in the cab. He passed when I was 11 when an electrical fault set my family home ablaze. I was at my grandparents at the time and my dad didn’t make it out, but my mother did. She remarried and relocated to France without me 3 years later and I never saw her again. My grandparents took me in and my grandad helped further fuel my passion for HGV’s and supported me to get all my licenses. After a bit of perseverance, I landed a job that I love.
This particular day, I had already done Plymouth to London and back, and decided to go straight into the Edinburgh delivery. This wasn’t unusual, just as long as we allocated ourselves sufficient rest opportunities and met the deadline – which in this case was 3 days away – we could work as often as we liked.
I had all the time in the world, but our company allowed us to take whatever time was left from a job as our own. I figured I could make it to Edinburgh in 8 hours through the night, and I’d have at least two and a half days to myself. My lorry can be left with the client whilst they take care of loading anything to be returned, and I have family in the city that I can stay with. I’d offer to cook one night and take my niece and nephew for an early-Christmas outing, giving my brother and sister-in-law a much needed, teenager-free evening; all-round enjoyment.
My eyes were ever so slightly heavy when I arrived back from London at precisely 22:22. I even chose to ignore that very symmetrical time as an omen, a time my grandmother always used to fuss over, claiming it to be the time she would pass away. I always just use to dismiss it as superstitious nonsense.
The next hour was spent getting the lorry loaded, completing safety checks, fuelling the lorry and making sure I had all the things I needed in the cab ready for the journey. I left the depot at 23:37.
I was around five and a half hours into the journey, beginning the stretch of the M6 than ran along the Lake District. The familiarity of the road felt tranquil, even in the middle of a chilly December night. With Christmas less than one week away, I had time to reflect on upcoming plans with friends and family and make a mental checklist of any last-minute gifts I might need to purchase.
My eyelids were renegades, blatantly ignoring the commands from my brain to remain open. I’ll admit that the dryness was particularly uncomfortable. I reached over to my storage compartment on the left and pulled out a Monster energy drink. I didn’t drink them often and found that the caffeine worked wonders at defeating the need for sleep.
After cracking open the can, taking a few mouthfuls and placing it into my cupholder, I put the cab’s window down in order to assault my face with the unforgiving whip of the night air, something I dubbed a “refresh”. I rolled the window up, and that’s when I saw it.
I instinctively glanced over to my passenger-side mirror and there was a man sat in the passenger seat. He startled me and I felt like my heart stopped for a moment, before rapidly beating as I jerked the wheel and veered into the middle lane of the motorway, violently correcting myself, with the inertia spilling the interior of my cabin all over. A horn blared indicating a near-miss and I involuntarily screamed “sorry” before regaining control.
My attention abruptly snapped to the stranger now riding passenger. “What the fuck are you doing in here, mate? Who the fuck are you?” I demanded. I wasn’t, and still am not that fond of profanity but I felt backed into a corner in my own domain, my sanctuary.
The man appeared normal, dressed in dark grey overalls, a matching-coloured cap, and was staring straight ahead out through the windscreen. I turned my eyes back to the road and tried to regain composure, every now and again pleading aloud for answers as to who the man was and where he came from. I turned to look at him and his head was swivelled slightly in my direction, as though he was wanting to look at me. He did not move whilst I looked at him.
As I tried to slow my breathing, I began to dart my eyes around my half of the cabin for something I could use to defend myself. I remember there was literally nothing of use, considering my erratic reaction to the stranger’s appearance had caused me to unintentionally rearrange the cabin’s contents from their usual places. The thought even crossed my mind to dash the remainder of the energy drink into his face to allow me time to stop and get out of the cabin.
As my eyes landed in his direction, his head had turned even more so, now staring directly at me. His face was normal, but his eyes were oddly large, and unnerving to look into. His hands were resting atop his legs - though I could see he was missing his right hand - and his whole demeanour appeared relaxed.
I turned my attention to the road for no more than two seconds, confirming I was on a clear straight and still in the boundaries of the slow lane. Looking back at the man revealed his body had tensed slightly and his left hand had left his knee and was hovering between himself and the dashboard; stone-faced and eyes wide.
“Is he fucking moving whilst I’m looking away?” I remember thinking to myself. Holding eye contact, I started panicking, desperately trying to not divert my attention, whilst also wishing for nothing more than to look back to the road and continue my journey as normal. “Fuck off, you fucking prick!” Repetitive lines delivered with unhinged eloquence were the only sounds filling the cabin.
I desperately flicked my eyes to the road and back; still straight, but his left hand had moved closer in my direction. I noticed a sickening, joyful glint in his ridiculous eyes, suggesting he was getting a kick out of this. My forearms throbbed because of how tight I was gripping the steering wheel and I felt beads of sweat roll down my face. I did not consent to the staring contest I’d found myself in but I begrudged looking away.
The alarming sensation of the rumble strips broke my trance and I snapped my head around to face the road, again spinning the wheel to veer into the middle lane. I looked back at the man and his hand was frozen in time, closer in my direction, his whole body leaning towards me. “He’s fucking reaching for me, the bastard,” I thought.
The next few minutes saw me rapidly turning my attention from the road to the man, my perspective turning him into a sadistic stop-motion character. I knew the inevitable was bound to happen but I refused to believe it. I couldn’t even see his movements from the corner of my eye, only that he was closer whenever I acknowledged him directly.
I steadied the vehicle and gritted my teeth before I slowly rotated my head around to see his hand mere centimetres away, his face still expressionless and eyes wider than ever. The world outside the cabin was dyed an ethereal combination of green, blue and purple, a vast expanse of beautiful emptiness. Traffic on the road was sparse in the first place but there were no longer any vehicles present around, or ahead of me.
My focus switched to the man who remained in position, his bug eyes reflecting the same scene as outside, overall expression still the same. I remember feeling everything and nothing at the same time. My mind was burdened with both anxiety and relaxation. I took to driving as normal, taking in the familiar-yet-unrecognisable road in front of me. Then the signs started.
Tiredness can kill. Take a break.
Nothing out of the ordinary.
Tiredness can kill.
Bleak, yet to the point.
Tiredness will kill.
A red flag, in every sense of the phrase.
The man remained frozen in place whether I looked his way or not. Despite the alarm bells in my head from the road signs, I slowed my speed and observed the ever-approaching landscape with a bit more concentration. How I wish I never saw what came after.
Stood at the side of the road was a man on fire, calmly waving as if the situation wasn’t bizarre enough already. My eyes widened as I approached, the lights from my lorry illuminating the scene before me. His clothes were tattered and his skin was melting off of his body. Exposed bone and muscle peeked through, glistening with the syrup-like skin that was unmistakably falling off of my father. This was not a memory, but a grotesque rendition of the image I’d conjured in my head after learning about my father’s last moments of life.
Further down the road was something else that gripped my attention. A body hanging from a tree, lifeless with their hair and dress fluttering in the breeze. Although I hadn’t seen her for 12 years, I knew it was my mother. Her neck was crooked - clearly broken - and her dull eyes sat above a gaping, foamy mouth. Her hands were covered in blood, her own blood, confirmed after noticing that both of her wrists were slashed.
“Surely I’m dreaming?” I thought, attempting to convince myself I’d relented and pulled over to get some sleep. I’d not heard anything of my mother for all that time, so why would I have been seeing something like that?
For the next few minutes, I saw both of my parents over and over again, in quicker succession. My ears started to ring and the colours outside began to pulse and vibrate, knocking my senses all out of whack. My breathing intensified and I started to sweat and cry, whimpering with every exhale as if I were in pain. The the signs started again.
Tiredness…
Will…
Kill…
You…
Cannot…
Stop…
It.
My hands met my face and I furiously rubbed my eyes. Upon opening them again, everything was back to normal; night time outside, a road I recognised, and there were a few vehicles on the road. I continued to let out over-exaggerated breaths as if I were still going through the prior experience, gripping the wheel as though my hands were one with it. There was nothing but deafening, daunting silence. Then I remembered the man.
I turned to look at him and I screamed. He was squatting on the seat, fully naked and facing me. The familiar eyes were still wide but this time he was grinning, bearing awfully rotted teeth. His left hand was propped on the dashboard and his right hand was actually an organic blade etched from skin and bone. My foot momentarily floored the accelerator in a panic.
Without warning, he wound back and set to launch at me with the blade, snarling like a rabid dog. In one unbelievably precise motion - whilst still screaming - I unbuckled my seat belt, opened my door, and dived out of the lorry.
Over the next few hours I drifted in and out of consciousness, seeing glimpses of blue lights, a journey in the ambulance, and being rushed into surgery. I caught murmurs of conversation, but nothing was coherent.
I came too in an intensive care unit. There were a couple of nurses, and a police officer stood just outside of the door. I had a couple of IV lines coming out of me. My left arm was in a cast and sling and my left leg had a spatial frame along its entirety, propped up like an unorthodox art piece. The pain in my chest was noticeable but bearable. My right wrist was tethered to the hospital bed by a set of handcuffs.
Nurses advised that when I jumped from the lorry, my left side took the brunt of the fall. Due to the height combined with the inertia, combined with hitting the bare road surface, I sustained multiple fractures to my upper and lower arm, my wrist was broken and my hand was shattered. I suffered multiple fractures in my lower leg and a compound fracture in my lower and upper leg. They had installed rods and gave almost 300 stitches in total. The spatial frame was in place to keep my leg from moving. I’d also broken 4 ribs; 3 on my left side and one on my right. I’d also ruptured my liver, but this was operated on before anything else to avoid complications. Miraculously, I did not suffer any head or facial injuries.
I spent several weeks trying to justify what happened, explaining what I saw but I was never taken seriously. My toxicology report showed no drugs or alcohol, so they could claim that I was inebriated behind the wheel.
I did learn, however, that my mum had committed suicide about 5 years before. She had taken and overdose of her antidepressant medication, slashed her own wrists and hung herself from the balcony that overlooked the garden of her home in France. Say what you will, but she seemed more determined to do that than continue raising her child. Though, no one knew why she did it.
Despite surviving the ordeal and living to be 63, that day; Tirednessdid in fact, kill. My abandoned lorry careered across the central reservation a hit a car head on. It was estimated that my lorry had slowed to around 40mph, but the car was travelling at 70mph. All four people in that car, a nuclear family with children aged 13 and 9, died on impact. They were reportedly travelling to their family’s house for Christmas, making the journey through the night to avoid traffic. I was arrested and sentenced to life without parole and have been incarcerated since I was fit enough to leave the hospital. I made an almost-full recovery, only requiring a stick to support my left side.
The mental toll of knowing I’d unintentionally killed a family burdened me with unbridled distain, festering away at me every day for 37 years.
I don’t sleep anymore. I can’t; Tiredness won’t let me. He sits calmly in the corner of my cell, staring at me with those unnaturally large eyes. Even when the cell is dark, his eyes glare like the threatening lights of an oncoming lorry. I’m not sure how much longer I can take this. I just wish I could sleep.
Tiredness can kill. Please, take a break.