October 2

They shot me.

My body shuddered. I cried out in surprise.

The sooped-up Renault roared up the street, teenagers inside wailing with random spiteful delight.

It was an egg.

I was dripping. Shell in my hair. Seams in my favourite coat now yellow, the stitching sticky.

I watched the car and wished a sudden crash. I veered it into a lamp-post, flipped it into a garden, dropped a rock down from the sky, squashed the bastards flat.

At home I scrubbed myself clean, peeling off the shell and the fury; and, calming down, I hoped not to see them in tomorrow’s paper: a tragic accident with a lorry. I would feel guilty.

I bet they didn’t.