Photo by Marcus Löfvenberg on Unsplash
This piece is a continuation of previous freewrites. Read the first one here. Read the second one here.
She inched away from the strange man, deeply unnerved by his blank expression. His appearance put her in mind of a carrion bird, arms tucked to his sides, dark eyes following her anxious movements. He seemed to be waiting dispassionately for her to die.
Suddenly, he launched himself forward, sweeping over the ground between them. She screamed and flinched away, dropping to the ground once more. Instead of hitting her, he passed through the air above her head and straight through her car, as though it were not even there.
She huddled for several long minutes where she had fallen, shaking. The man did not reappear. At last, she pushed to her feet once more, and turned on shaking legs to face her car.
Instead of the unassuming pea green of her reliable old station wagon, she saw a twisted wreck. The foam of the seats was moldering, and the paint was rusted and flaky. The hood was crumpled, as if under a massive blow.
Her eyes prickled, and she fought the urge to cry. She was even more stranded than she had been before—now she had only the clothes on her back, the items in her pockets, and her two feet. Now she would have to walk. A little sob escaped her, and she rubbed viciously at her eyes. She was going to die here, wasn’t she? Out in the middle of nowhere, alone, without son or husband or anyone who loved her?
She stood there for a long time, crying helplessly into her palms. At last, she dropped her hands and turned towards the road. Trying not to feel defeated, she stepped onto the black tar and began to trudge back towards home. The triumph of the hills felt like an itching between her shoulder-blades, like a malevolent presence watched her go and reveled in her failure. Tears trickled down her face and she stared down at the yellow line passing beneath her sneakers.
This is my response to the daily freewrite hosted by 
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