NIGHT DRIVES - frankie 'catfish' morales

one: trigger

NIGHT DRIVES
one: trigger

THE WIND IS BLOWING STRONG OUTSIDE THE WINDOW. She can hear it, it's growing louder. It rattles the window panes and fights with the trees and, sometimes, it almost sounds like there's rain lashing the sidewalk. The wind comes most nights. At least, it seems like it does. Even in the thick of summer, with the sweltering midnight air pressing down heavy on her chest, when the rest of the world is still and peaceful, it's there. It's unforgiving, rearing up in blind ferocity. An invisible beast. It waits at her window, watching, waiting, looming and lurking in the darkness. The wind is a twisted face pressed against the glass.

Sometimes, she wonders what would happen if she let it take her. If she left her window open, just an inch. If she padded down the creaking stairs, past the front door, and laid down right there in the middle of the street, beneath the cold glow of the street lamps. If she climbed out through her window, to the hidden part of the roof, arms outstretched and reaching towards the sky. Where would she go, if it took her? Would it be peaceful?

She wonders if the wind would take her, if she asked. If she called out to the sky, to whatever cosmic higher power happened to be listening. Would it take her away from this, from everything? From every bad thing that had happened to her since she was younger. She wonders if it would reach down its hands and sweep her up, carry her to the sky in its bitter embrace. If it would even welcome her, or if she'd thrown to the darkness and tossed away.

She wonders when it will finally come for her. When her time will be up and she'll be gone, when she won't feel any of the pain eating away at her from the inside out. Would it come slowly, silently, while she's old and asleep and in the arms of a lover? Or would it be quick, snatching her away? The ache in her chest seems too hollow, now. Far too hollow and agonising. And, if the wind were to sleep her away right then, she's not entirely sure it would be a moment too soon. The thought of it keeps her up at night; when she goes, will she be ready, will she be waiting, will it be alright?

The thoughts keep her up at night, tossing and turning and shuffling beneath her sheets. It's worse now he's gone. Eight years sleeping beside him, feeling his arms holding her close, doing his best to send her to sleep. She never slept much when he was there, but now he's gone, things feel colder when she tries to sleep. The birds wake, bright and chirping and ushering in the sunlight, before she even slips to sleep.

Some nights, she swears she can hear music down the street. It's carried on the wind. Though, sometimes, she can't tell whether it's all in her head. If it's just a phantom calling her to dance or if she's slowly going crazy at the brief stroke of the keys. It's a soft piano when it comes. Beethoven, she thinks, but she's never had much interest in classical music. She vaguely remembers the melody from when she was younger, surely no older than six. It's tucked away in the corner of her mind, but it blooms when she hears it. It's like it's taunting her, calling her, reaching for the hidden memories that she keeps hidden away, worried they'll cause her too much pain. She remembers her mom - blonde and beautiful and so lovely - and how she'd play small symphonies on hazy Sunday afternoons, heat soaking through the walls as Jane danced across the wooden floor in her sundress.

How simple things were then, when her mom was there to help her fight off the nightmares. The worst had started when she died, horror movies in her head every time she closed her eyes. Everything's gone, now. She's gone, now. There's nothing but memories, evergreen and golden, weathering at the edges like an old photograph. And Jane lays caught, staring at the ceilings, fighting between the hurricane in her head and the one outside her window.

Every night, she falls apart again. If she does sleep, there are nightmares, of her mother and the night she died, of the darkness and the water and it's pulling her under and she can't breathe. And when she wakes the wind is there again, calling her name, whispering, whispering, whispering. Driving helps, sometimes. It distracts her. The soft hum of the tires on the road, the soft noise of the engine. Sometimes she drives until the sun rises and the sky turns a watercolour blue.