Over the Edge

“Over,” Jack heard himself say. The word bounced back flatly in the Camaro’s small cab, breaking his trance momentarily. He clapped his hands to his face and massaged it to get the blood flowing. He could barely remember driving up here. He remembered the text messages, remembered what Myra had said: “I’m with Andy now, Jack, I told you. It’s over.” The word hung like a pall. He parted his fingers, looking through the slits. Through the windshield he could see snow falling lightly in the low-beams of the SS, and, in the distance, a quarter-mile down the winding, unpaved mountain road, snugged in among the snow-touched pine and spruce, the house lights.

Over…

Jack leaned over and unlatched the glovebox, letting the door fall open. Moonlight glinted off polished-steel grooves of a .38. He shoved it in his coat pocket. He checked his rear-view mirror and saw no headlights through the cold-suspended exhaust vapors. He put the Camaro into gear and started slowly down the grade, riding the brake.

After about three-hundred yards he rounded a curve and the little cabin came more clearly into view. The shielded outdoor floodlight mounted over the tiny detached garage lit the parking area next to the cabin. Andy's truck sat there, washed in the soft, flickering glow of the metal halide bulb. “You don’t belong here,” Jack said. He took his foot off the brake, put the transmission into low gear, and switched off the headlights. He let the ’68 descend at idle, using only the low gear to keep him at a safe speed. When he neared the cabin the road flattened out and he brought the Camaro to a stop. He got out and walked toward the lights. “Over,” he said, through tears. “Over.” In a few moments, it was.

300 words