My shoes crunch an ever rhythm as I wander along, waiting for the sound of the next vehicle. I’m bone tired as I trudge, hugging the gravel verge. It’s beginning to rain and I idly wish I’d packed a coat but all I have are my Uni books and a change of clothes for the long weekend.
I flip my backpack to the other shoulder so I can wreck my back on that side as well. I haven’t been home all term so I thought this weekend I’d make a supreme effort but with no car or much money, hitching is the only option. Mum would kill me, of course, but I have a lie rehearsed and ready for when she gives me the third degree.
I hear a car labouring up the hill and turn to check it out. I’m sick of walking already and hope that this one will stop. It clanks and chugs into view and I instantly change my mind and hope that it passes me by. I turn away and pretend I wasn’t after a ride as the car approaches but it’s too late.
It’s a very rusty and beaten up VW but that’s not what mortifies me the most. It’s packed to the rafters with testosterone-fuelled guys, probably fellow Uni students. It’s Friday and they’re ready for fun.
I’d run and hide if that was possible but there’s no escape now.
The car grinds to an inglorious halt and promptly stalls. A puff of black, noxious smoke barrels out of the rattly exhaust and there’s a barrage of yelling and swearing.
I hope they are so distracted with the car that they will let me pass and it seems this is so. I am almost past the car and beginning to berate myself for my juvenile paranoia when one of them yells,
“Oi bitch!” and grabs my arm.
I am stung by the words and frightened. My heart is beating so fast and so loudly in my ears that I think they must be able to hear it. I try to wrench my arm free but he tightens his grip and pulls me hard up against the door panel. There are four of them and they are laughing and high fiving each other like stupid kids. Then they start on the sex talk and what they will do for me and what I can do for them. It is so unoriginal that I almost laugh.
I am about to launch into my own barrage of insults when a car pulls up not two inches behind the VW. It is sleek and expensive and couldn’t be any different to the hoon’s car.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
I love driving.
I have the power.
I am separated from the world.
I am free to do as I please.
No-one touches me.
That is as it should be.
I can turn up the music if I choose as I do now because the incessant whimpering has begun to irritate me and I do not enjoy this sensation.
It makes my skin prickle with beads of perspiration and my palms begin to sweat.
It must stop because it is unclean.
I wipe my palms on the towel on the passenger seat before I pull over.
As I get out of the car the door alert beeps its electronic warning.
