His Destiny

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        English Coursework        17/06/08

Madison Bailey

Reluctant, short of breath, he opened the boot, slowly, and shined the torch inside. The dark-haired woman's body was there with broken glass, as he'd feared. He stifled a sob, quickly closed the boot, and gazed about, fearful someone had seen his dark secret.

He awoke abruptly, cold, nauseated, shivering despite the number of blankets over him. He closed his eyes tightly, trying to chase the frightening image, which remained vivid. The hair at the back of his neck was wet, as were his armpits and the back of his knees. It was 4 in the morning. It was the fifth consecutive night he'd been awakened at this precise hour. Tears came to his eyes. He was frustrated and baffled. He could not imagine what wish would be fulfilled by the murder of a woman who was a stranger to him.

He dressed quickly, everything at his fingertips in the tiny studio apartment. He set the three locks at his door and tiptoed down to the lobby. He had difficulty opening the building's large outer door, the wind blowing furiously against it. The night was dark, the area deserted. Light shone in only a handful of the windows of the apartment buildings that lined the street. His teeth were chattering as he approached the small car. The knot in his chest had his tall frame hunching, as if he were carrying a weight about his neck. He took a torch from the glove compartment and opened the boot, slowly, respiring heavily, breath visible and filling the air. Although he feared it a concession to madness, he felt compelled to check. He was no longer able to assure himself: It's just a dream. It was too real to be false.

He sighed upon finding the boot empty. Again tears filled his eyes. Why was he having this dream? It made no sense. Why wasn't he having dreams of his mother's long, agonising death by cancer, which still, after two years, often occupied his waking hours?

Unable to sleep, he tried to analyse the dream, which he'd been having periodically for months. He was unable to bring the woman's face into focus. He knew only that she was dark-haired, which made sense, as this was the type to whom he was most attracted, dark like himself, his Greek heritage. Even the car was a blur, as only the boot was seen. He sensed, however, that it was his. Was he only to discover and not murder the woman - or did he want her dead? He cringed as he recalled the venom he'd felt for the women who'd spurned him. Living alone the last two years had not afforded the fulfilment he'd expected. Would bitterness drive him to murder? Had he already killed while sleepwalking? Again he was nauseated.

The alarm sounded just as he'd been about to drop off to sleep. His breakfast consisted of black coffee, heavily sugared, as his mother had liked it. As he was dipping a cookie into it, a cockroach crawled across the table. He squashed it with the flat of his fist, grunting maniacally. He sprayed and sprayed and was unable to get rid of the vermin.

He did not perform well in the classroom, mind and body too tired to summon the energy to inspire high school students to an appreciation of Maths. They stared blankly, apparently too bored even to misbehave. He questioned whether he'd ever been a good teacher. He was afraid the nightmare was affecting his waking hours.

After class he went to the school library to research works he would be covering in weeks to come. Before he knew it, night had fallen. He despaired. He hated the early darkness, the long nights. He longed for spring, daylight-savings-time. During winter he liked to get home early and turn the lights on to chase the gloom.

"Excuse me," he heard as he approached the main exit. An attractive, dark-haired woman approached.
Her name was Madison Bailey. She was the new dance teacher.

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“I was wondering if you'd mind walking me out to my car."

"No," he said, tense, voice sticking in his throat.

He was unable to offer more than one-word responses to her small talk. Fortunately, she was persuasive. They did not suffer a lengthy, embarrassing silence. He'd decided to stop trying to communicate with women, having failed with several approaches. He did not think he was unattractive, but he believed he lacked whatever the opposite sex was seeking. 35, he doubted he would ever marry. He was sure the young woman thought him odd, and he wasn't sure she wasn't ...

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