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Samantha-Jane Brigstock was a very plain girl. Not that anyone would know it as she never appeared in public – or anywhere else, unless under several layers of makeup and colourful clothing. Usually homemade items that were knitted or salvaged from the bottom of various family members closets and charity shops.
Today was Tuesday and she hated Tuesdays. Again – not that this was apparent to anyone around her, with her beaming grin and offers to make everyone in the office cups of tea on the hour every hour. She was in her own way quiet, and yet would float and skip around as though not tied down by the same worries of her colleagues.
What a word – she thought. I am no one’s ‘colleague’. I am a friend. A confidant even. She sipped her caffeine free camomile tea from her glass cup. The sun was turning the sky tangerine and the news website spoke of more snow later in the evening. It was 3 now, she decided she would leave in 25 minutes precisely. Precision was key in Samantha-Jane’s life. It was the touchstone for everything that went well. To the clock. An ordered day, a place for everything – as they say, and all else fell into place.
She would glide out a tad early today and leave the worries of the world in her gentle wake, like a small boat going by and casting bits of floating seaweed off towards the shore. Her long light pink dress swished around her DM boots as she walked to place her cup in the sink – and again as she waved goodbye to the formality of the room and its inhabitants. She reached into her saggy brown leather bag for her security pass and lamented over its photograph yet again. I look like a murderer.
She beeped out with the small rectangle of plastic and swished through the outer doors, giving the security booth her last smile of the day. The pass wouldn’t slip back into her bag as it always did… it jammed and caught and she held her breath trying to release it. Everything went black.
She awoke to a strange female face, young and soft but contorted, and yet friendly – asking what her name was. She spoke clearly and in no uncertain terms: ‘My name is Samantha-Jane Brigstock. Why?’ As she tried to take another breath she felt the weight on her chest and looked down to see the car. Its front wheels were up on the curb and she – diagonally beneath it. The front bumper was raised and lay across her chest. Then a fireman placed a clear mask over her mouth and nose and held her hand saying something like ‘…now Jane, this is going to hurt a little as we move it.’ She began to feel tired and felt him catch her head as she lay it back down onto what smelled to her like an old woman’s cardigan.
As she drifted further she heard car horns, and then a cranking sound like a chain being pulled across a metal grate. Her vision faded, she felt ok again and the sky turned a dark purple. Today was Tuesday and she hated Tuesdays. not that this was apparent to anyone around her. Precision was key in Samantha Jane’s life. It was the touchstone for everything that went well. To the clock. An ordered day, a place for everything – as they say. And all else fell into place.
* Dan Bowan is 36, lives in South East London and mainly write prose/poetry, as well as short stories/flash fiction – some of which have been published in Creative Week newspaper. He adds “I have been writing for 13-14 years and work a day job to pay the rent. I've also performed at The Poetry Society in Betterton Street and a couple other places.”