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Description
       It was a nice, crisp morning, about nine, and birds were circling on the horizon. The mountain road meandered between cliff faces and boulders, climbing steadily higher over the rough terrain. The only thing moving besides the waving leaves of the shrubs was a gunmetal grey aston martin, hugging the inside of the road as it crawled along. Its blacked out windows reflected the scenery as it passed; blue sky, guardrails, dark rocks.

        It eased around a switchback, motor purring, and continued its ascent, gathering a little more speed once around the curve. The road was on a reasonably steep incline, but still the car went faster and faster. Its spinning tires knocked pebbles loose and sent them tumbling over the cliff face, mere inches from the left side of the car. Inevitably, when the aston reached the next sharp turn in the road, it couldn't slow down fast enough. The car went careening over the edge of the cliff, ripping through the guardrail as if it were tin foil, and disappeared.

But just before the car lost control, the driver's side door was flung open and a man launched himself from the vehicle.  He was airborne for a moment before hitting the rocky ground hard, attempting to roll on his shoulder to reduce the impact. He slid a few feet over the gravel and sand, tearing his suit and grinding bits of rock and dirt into his abused skin before his bloodied hands finally stopped his momentum. The man lay there for a moment catching his breath, then gingerly sat up and climbed to his feet. He brushed off the remains of his suit and pushed his hair away from his face before reaching into his pocket and pulling out his cell phone.

"Hello? Yes. I'd like to report an accident," he said.

A tow truck interrupted the stillness half an hour later, long after the man had disappeared around a bend in the road, to haul the wreckage up from the rocks below. There wasn't much left of the car for it to collect.

                                         * * *

"My team did all we could to save him, but your baby didn't make it. I'm sorry for your loss." He faltered; it seemed as though he wasn't the kind of doctor who had to give this news very often. I thought about that for the next two days in my hospital bed, and decided to forgive him. After all, it wasn't his umbilical cord that had strangled my… our baby. Granted, it wasn't my fault either, but I don't think Michael saw it that way.

       He left my recovery room as often as possible after the incident, feeding me flimsy excuses to explain his absence. I let it slide. We all mourn in our own way, I reasoned, and he'd always been introverted. It's why we ended up here in Colorado, after all. He was a solitary man, unwilling to participate in fast-paced city life, and we often took vacations to get away from it all.  This vacation was supposed to be our last hurrah before the baby came, but the little squirt had other ideas and came prematurely three days into the vacation.

       I decided that he can be as antisocial as he wants, as long as he helps me into the car like any good husband would as we leave the hospital. I smiled halfheartedly at the towel covering the passenger seat as he released my arm. I guess the extra protection was warranted; this aston was his first baby. His only one, for now, I thought. I looked over at him as he pulled out of the parking lot, the man I married straight out of college. He's changed since then. I suppose neither of us were done growing up when we got hitched, but I'd come to love this version of Michael as much as the original. I looked back out my window. We could always try again.

       I watched the dark rocks and guardrails flicker by through the window as Michael wound the astin expertly around the curves in the road. Higher and higher, closer to heaven.

       "Our baby's gone, Michael," I said. It seemed like a new concept all of a sudden. The child that had been inside of me for so long was gone.  Michael was silent. I looked back out the window. The scenery was suddenly flashing past much too quickly.

       "Michael, slow down. Are you okay?" I reached for his hand, which was resting tensely against the seatbelt buckle.

       "I'm sorry." he said, and pressed the release button.

                                      * * *

       You were born into wealth, into the role and responsibility it demands. You could have had the perfect life, if you'd wanted it, with a white picket fence and two point three children and a model housewife who had dinner on the table every night promptly at six. She would have done that for you, Penny would have. But you were meant for more than a mediocre life behind a desk. You were too good for speaking to representatives and presenters as if they were old friends when, in fact, you had never seen them before in your life. Better than pretending to enjoy watching the little red arrow rise and fall month after month. Fate had never been your best friend, not allowing you to leave the corporation your father built up around you, but it reared its great ugly head fully in Colorado that day and you were unprepared.

       The doctor's face and those of the countless others you've been systematically introduced to blurred together in your memory. He is of little importance. What is important are the words he says, spun off so carelessly. 'I'm sorry' is among them. You've always found that saying hollow and abused. Instead of the repentance it was supposed to represent, people used it as a way to let themselves off the hook. No, the words meant nothing anymore.

       You help your wife into the car automatically, noticing but not acknowledging her silence. It's for the best, after all. You'd hate for anything more to get in the way of your plans. That child was supposed to be your ticket out, an easy escape from the corporate world you inherited. You would have raised him as any good father would, as well as your trophy wife expected, but your actions would have just been the means to an end. You wouldn't have stayed entrapped in your position until you were old enough to retire, no. He would have taken over in your stead, and you could leave that world behind for good.

       And then she failed. She ruined your plan, could not make you happy like she always tried so hard to do. You drive up the mountain in the opposite direction from the hotel you booked. 'I'm sorry,' you say to her wide-eyed face as you unbuckle your seatbelt and grasp the door handle. No one would expect a dead man at work on Monday. Who's to say you didn't die alongside you wife?

Description
       It was a nice, crisp morning, about nine, and birds were circling on the horizon. The mountain road meandered between cliff faces and boulders, climbing steadily higher over the rough terrain. The only thing moving besides the waving leaves of the shrubs was a gunmetal grey aston martin, hugging the inside of the road as it crawled along. Its blacked out windows reflected the scenery as it passed; blue sky, guardrails, dark rocks.

        It eased around a switchback, motor purring, and continued its ascent, gathering a little more speed once around the curve. The road was on a reasonably steep incline, but still the car went faster and faster. Its spinning tires knocked pebbles loose and sent them tumbling over the cliff face, mere inches from the left side of the car. Inevitably, when the aston reached the next sharp turn in the road, it couldn't slow down fast enough. The car went careening over the edge of the cliff, ripping through the guardrail as if it were tin foil, and disappeared.

But just before the car lost control, the driver's side door was flung open and a man launched himself from the vehicle.  He was airborne for a moment before hitting the rocky ground hard, attempting to roll on his shoulder to reduce the impact. He slid a few feet over the gravel and sand, tearing his suit and grinding bits of rock and dirt into his abused skin before his bloodied hands finally stopped his momentum. The man lay there for a moment catching his breath, then gingerly sat up and climbed to his feet. He brushed off the remains of his suit and pushed his hair away from his face before reaching into his pocket and pulling out his cell phone.

"Hello? Yes. I'd like to report an accident," he said.

A tow truck interrupted the stillness half an hour later, long after the man had disappeared around a bend in the road, to haul the wreckage up from the rocks below. There wasn't much left of the car for it to collect.

                                         * * *

"My team did all we could to save him, but your baby didn't make it. I'm sorry for your loss." He faltered; it seemed as though he wasn't the kind of doctor who had to give this news very often. I thought about that for the next two days in my hospital bed, and decided to forgive him. After all, it wasn't his umbilical cord that had strangled my… our baby. Granted, it wasn't my fault either, but I don't think Michael saw it that way.

       He left my recovery room as often as possible after the incident, feeding me flimsy excuses to explain his absence. I let it slide. We all mourn in our own way, I reasoned, and he'd always been introverted. It's why we ended up here in Colorado, after all. He was a solitary man, unwilling to participate in fast-paced city life, and we often took vacations to get away from it all.  This vacation was supposed to be our last hurrah before the baby came, but the little squirt had other ideas and came prematurely three days into the vacation.

       I decided that he can be as antisocial as he wants, as long as he helps me into the car like any good husband would as we leave the hospital. I smiled halfheartedly at the towel covering the passenger seat as he released my arm. I guess the extra protection was warranted; this aston was his first baby. His only one, for now, I thought. I looked over at him as he pulled out of the parking lot, the man I married straight out of college. He's changed since then. I suppose neither of us were done growing up when we got hitched, but I'd come to love this version of Michael as much as the original. I looked back out my window. We could always try again.

       I watched the dark rocks and guardrails flicker by through the window as Michael wound the astin expertly around the curves in the road. Higher and higher, closer to heaven.

       "Our baby's gone, Michael," I said. It seemed like a new concept all of a sudden. The child that had been inside of me for so long was gone.  Michael was silent. I looked back out the window. The scenery was suddenly flashing past much too quickly.

       "Michael, slow down. Are you okay?" I reached for his hand, which was resting tensely against the seatbelt buckle.

       "I'm sorry." he said, and pressed the release button.

                                      * * *

       You were born into wealth, into the role and responsibility it demands. You could have had the perfect life, if you'd wanted it, with a white picket fence and two point three children and a model housewife who had dinner on the table every night promptly at six. She would have done that for you, Penny would have. But you were meant for more than a mediocre life behind a desk. You were too good for speaking to representatives and presenters as if they were old friends when, in fact, you had never seen them before in your life. Better than pretending to enjoy watching the little red arrow rise and fall month after month. Fate had never been your best friend, not allowing you to leave the corporation your father built up around you, but it reared its great ugly head fully in Colorado that day and you were unprepared.

       The doctor's face and those of the countless others you've been systematically introduced to blurred together in your memory. He is of little importance. What is important are the words he says, spun off so carelessly. 'I'm sorry' is among them. You've always found that saying hollow and abused. Instead of the repentance it was supposed to represent, people used it as a way to let themselves off the hook. No, the words meant nothing anymore.

       You help your wife into the car automatically, noticing but not acknowledging her silence. It's for the best, after all. You'd hate for anything more to get in the way of your plans. That child was supposed to be your ticket out, an easy escape from the corporate world you inherited. You would have raised him as any good father would, as well as your trophy wife expected, but your actions would have just been the means to an end. You wouldn't have stayed entrapped in your position until you were old enough to retire, no. He would have taken over in your stead, and you could leave that world behind for good.

       And then she failed. She ruined your plan, could not make you happy like she always tried so hard to do. You drive up the mountain in the opposite direction from the hotel you booked. 'I'm sorry,' you say to her wide-eyed face as you unbuckle your seatbelt and grasp the door handle. No one would expect a dead man at work on Monday. Who's to say you didn't die alongside you wife?