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Description
"He loves ya. He loved ya."

You awake with the velvet smell of his leather jacket comforting you, covering you, in the back seat of the car. It wasn't over you when you fell asleep; at least, from what you remember. The cheap whiskey has left a sour taste in your mouth and a numbing gap in your memory. You nestle deeper into the old, musty seat as the first beams of the sun filter their way onto your eyelids. You can see every piece of dust, highlighted, picked out in minute focus, as they perform their slow, meandering dance in front of you. You shut your eyes against the sun and, without looking, reach out from under his jacket to slightly crack the window. The air that flows in is brisk and sharp, carrying the smell of dew and the freshness of spring as you curl up, pulling the soft leather over one side of your face so that his scent of stale cigarettes, sweat and concrete particles truly envelopes you. The slight breeze blasts the pieces of dust away and obliterates their performance, though you don't see it, safe in your cocoon of warmth and peace. The birds whistle the wind to one another as you lull yourself back into your dreams.

"He loves ya. He loved ya."

By the time you re-awaken the sun has risen; the car has warmed up and it is stifling under the jacket. With one arm you cast it aside and it slips into the footwell whilst you use your other hand to shade your eyes from the invading light. You sit up, flicking your long, blonde hair to one side as you peer unsteadily at the clock on the dashboard. Not much use, it never worked. The crumpled bible pages are still there, littering the passenger side in their scarcity, but the silver chain with its small anchor that is always, always, hanging from the rear view mirror, is gone. This is how the unsettling fear begins. You push the door open and pull yourself out, your boots scuffing the discarded jacket on the way. You slam the door behind you, not noticing the small flakes of yellow paint that jump away from the violence and flutter gently into the grass, as you gaze around the field. The campfire is little more than charred blocks of wood, and ash escaping in the breeze; the empty bottles reflect the sun and the sky from their scattered landing points; the selection of twisting, leaning trees to your right teeter, while the water at their bases lies stagnant. Flies whine around you, spiralling upwards in their adventures, and you slap exasperatedly at them. Maybe he's just gone for a walk and a smoke?

"He loves ya. He loved ya."

By dusk you have run out of all possible excuses, and it is patently clear he is not coming back. You sit on the cold metal bonnet of the car with your knees pulled up to your chin and your arms wrapped around your legs, watching the sun set over the meadows. You remember his scruffy, black hair. You watch as the streams and ponds in the distance emanate orange before they dim back to black; watch the sky as it loses its colour, changing from magnificent blue, through the pastel shades towards the inevitable grey. You remember his soft, dark eyes. The tears creep down your cheeks, along your rounded jawline to your chin, before falling silently, gracefully, to land with perfect, almost unhearable 'plink' on the metal. You remember his low, soothing voice. The sun has set now. The birds are making their last calls, the swallows pursuing their last few flies as they twist and dive through the glow. It is cold now, and you shiver as you feel the faint kiss of the dew on your bare arms. You stretch your legs out before you and slip onto your feet in front of the old car, before walking round to the passenger side back door. You limply reach out and grasp the handle and then climb ungracefully into your room for the night. The door shut behind you, you huddle in the opposite corner until something on the floor catches your eye. You reach down and pick up the playing card. The Jack of Hearts. You place it gently on the seat beside you and lean down to grasp the smooth, cold jacket from the floor, pulling it up towards your eyes and nose and mouth, letting its touch caress your cheek. You curl into a ball and drag it over yourself, trying to make sure it covers every part of your too slender body. You begin to mourn your loss, as, once again, your dreams call to you.

He loves you. He loved you.

Description
"He loves ya. He loved ya."

You awake with the velvet smell of his leather jacket comforting you, covering you, in the back seat of the car. It wasn't over you when you fell asleep; at least, from what you remember. The cheap whiskey has left a sour taste in your mouth and a numbing gap in your memory. You nestle deeper into the old, musty seat as the first beams of the sun filter their way onto your eyelids. You can see every piece of dust, highlighted, picked out in minute focus, as they perform their slow, meandering dance in front of you. You shut your eyes against the sun and, without looking, reach out from under his jacket to slightly crack the window. The air that flows in is brisk and sharp, carrying the smell of dew and the freshness of spring as you curl up, pulling the soft leather over one side of your face so that his scent of stale cigarettes, sweat and concrete particles truly envelopes you. The slight breeze blasts the pieces of dust away and obliterates their performance, though you don't see it, safe in your cocoon of warmth and peace. The birds whistle the wind to one another as you lull yourself back into your dreams.

"He loves ya. He loved ya."

By the time you re-awaken the sun has risen; the car has warmed up and it is stifling under the jacket. With one arm you cast it aside and it slips into the footwell whilst you use your other hand to shade your eyes from the invading light. You sit up, flicking your long, blonde hair to one side as you peer unsteadily at the clock on the dashboard. Not much use, it never worked. The crumpled bible pages are still there, littering the passenger side in their scarcity, but the silver chain with its small anchor that is always, always, hanging from the rear view mirror, is gone. This is how the unsettling fear begins. You push the door open and pull yourself out, your boots scuffing the discarded jacket on the way. You slam the door behind you, not noticing the small flakes of yellow paint that jump away from the violence and flutter gently into the grass, as you gaze around the field. The campfire is little more than charred blocks of wood, and ash escaping in the breeze; the empty bottles reflect the sun and the sky from their scattered landing points; the selection of twisting, leaning trees to your right teeter, while the water at their bases lies stagnant. Flies whine around you, spiralling upwards in their adventures, and you slap exasperatedly at them. Maybe he's just gone for a walk and a smoke?

"He loves ya. He loved ya."

By dusk you have run out of all possible excuses, and it is patently clear he is not coming back. You sit on the cold metal bonnet of the car with your knees pulled up to your chin and your arms wrapped around your legs, watching the sun set over the meadows. You remember his scruffy, black hair. You watch as the streams and ponds in the distance emanate orange before they dim back to black; watch the sky as it loses its colour, changing from magnificent blue, through the pastel shades towards the inevitable grey. You remember his soft, dark eyes. The tears creep down your cheeks, along your rounded jawline to your chin, before falling silently, gracefully, to land with perfect, almost unhearable 'plink' on the metal. You remember his low, soothing voice. The sun has set now. The birds are making their last calls, the swallows pursuing their last few flies as they twist and dive through the glow. It is cold now, and you shiver as you feel the faint kiss of the dew on your bare arms. You stretch your legs out before you and slip onto your feet in front of the old car, before walking round to the passenger side back door. You limply reach out and grasp the handle and then climb ungracefully into your room for the night. The door shut behind you, you huddle in the opposite corner until something on the floor catches your eye. You reach down and pick up the playing card. The Jack of Hearts. You place it gently on the seat beside you and lean down to grasp the smooth, cold jacket from the floor, pulling it up towards your eyes and nose and mouth, letting its touch caress your cheek. You curl into a ball and drag it over yourself, trying to make sure it covers every part of your too slender body. You begin to mourn your loss, as, once again, your dreams call to you.

He loves you. He loved you.