The engine was an old engine – it whined and coughed, but to him it was singing. It was the song the crows all sing, a song of life and death and chaos. He resonated in sympathy to each discordant note of the music that only he could hear. His gum had long since lost its flavour and his mouth was dry and reptilian.
“Roll the window down a bit and let me breathe.”
There were many miles to go before morning splayed her thin grey fingers over the land. He rolled another spliff, just a small one - all he asked for was a little dab of fire to light his way. The road was long without even a whisper of which way was home – perhaps there was no way home – just the road and the memories.
He went to see a man about a monkey and left her standing in the rain while he sipped warm tea with his doctor. He couldn’t care less. He was that kind of arsehole. The kind that bleeds for sympathy when he’s dark from psychosis and suicidal ideation, but blows smoke up your arse when he’s high. He could be quite charming when he was high.
“I heard you got married.”
“Aye, I got married.”
“What was she thinking?”
“I have no idea.”
It would never last – it never did. He gave it two years before she worked it out – they all worked it out eventually. It was the secret that would not be concealed – the man had no soul. He did not sell it, or trade it for eternal youth, riches, fame, or power. He didn’t gamble it away in some diabolical game of chance. He didn’t even throw it away in a fit of pique. No – he simply turned around one day and noticed it was gone, like a missing shadow. He had mislaid his soul and had no idea where, though he thought he may have left it standing out in the rain somewhere.