Half a mile in and the bed-borne grogginess is starting to wear off. The frost is laid thin on the ground, not much more than a translucent smear on the pavement, and certainly not enough to slow his stride.
Trainers hitting tarmac provide the only real noise of the pre-dawn – muffled thumps on top of that unearthly, silent roar of a day not broken, of a world not yet roused from sleep. The man’s fingertips are numb, but already the pleasant ache of muscles working warms him from the inside.
The real warmth, however, comes from the few dull, window-warped ensuite lights shining out into the darkness. It comes from the odd car ticking over in a driveway, pluming exhaust fumes into the morning as the frost creeps back from the windscreen, from the flickering blue light playing onto drawn living room blinds as some night owl slumbers in front of MTV-left-blaring.
It comes from the knowledge that he, and he alone, runs the streets at this hour.
It is with this knowledge that the man leaves the nouveau-cobbled estate and begins to climb onto the quasi-rural back road. The man kicks the volume up on his run mix and kicks on up the hill. Which of those bleary-eyed business types, those dope-fug-choked layabouts, those work-from-homers will be able to look him in the eye when he returns to the estate, sweat-sheened and triumphant? None of them. For his neighbours, this place is as good as it will get. Volume up another notch. His day is half done before they have left their homes, mouths grotesque in barely concealed yawns and bound for whichever coffee establishment will mainline caffeine into their anoxic veins. Pathetic. Up one more notch for the burn.
The driver of the hatchback doesn’t even notice the thump as he rummages in the glove compartment for an aspirin. This is going to be one hell of a hangover. Best get in, get something to eat, and crash. He opens a car window in the hopes that the cold air will sober him up. Wouldn’t do to wrap the motor around a tree this close to home.
Those trainers are no longer hitting tarmac. One is lodged, still warm, in a hedgerow. The other is twitching obscenely at the bottom of the ditch. Even with the high-vis running vest, it will be a long time – days – before a neighbour thinks to themselves that they haven’t seen the young man from number twenty-seven for a while. That one who’s always cutting about in high-vis. Keeps himself to himself. Bit standoffish.
*Thanks for reading, folks. Images courtesy of Wallpaper Flare and Martin Bridgen. My recent short stories include ‘Night Out‘ and ‘Plausible Deniability‘.
Matthew Richardson is a writer of short stories. His work has featured in Gold Dust magazine, Literally Stories, Close to the Bone, McStorytellers, Penny Shorts, Soft Cartel, Whatever Keeps the Lights On, Flashback Fiction, Cafelit, Best MicroFiction 2021, Writer’s Egg, Idle Ink, The Wild Word, and Shooter magazine. He is a doctoral student at the University of Dundee, a lucky husband, and a proud father. He blogs at www.matthewjrichardson.com.
Matthew Richardson 
Another great write My Friend.
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Thanks Goff. Very kind of you as always.
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Pleasure. Great read.
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Good story, Matthew.
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Thanks Chris, very much appreciated and I hope you’re well pal.
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This one, as many of your’s are, is hauntingly true to life. The healthy and fit 🏃🏻♂️ runner gets mowed down by a drunk driver, who doesn’t realize what he’s even done. Life can be cruel like that. Just for upside down grins, I think I will write a sequel about how the inebriated driver is locked up for vehicular manslaughter. 😕 Good story, Matthew. 😉
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Thanks David. I thought it was a bit of a cruel one, but perhaps no less true for that. I think you’re right – a justice themed sequel would do the trick 😆
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o what a brutal end: I didn’t see that coming, nor did he; great photo to accompany this atmospheric piece; an accomplished piece of writing, Matthew and a good read —
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Thanks John. Not a good way to go, that’s for sure!
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Great story, Matthew!
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Thanks Susan. Very kind of you as always!
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It wasnt the motorist that was the bette niore for me in over 50 years of mainly road running – it was dogs. Under my feet, chasing me, barking at me … It goes on and on. You never know if the bugger is going to bite.
Cars became the issue when I was cycling.
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Yep I totally get you there. The common refrain from owners of ‘he won’t bite, he’s just saying hello’ never gives me comfort!
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Chilling, Matthew–and a woeful slice of life. I liked the touch of the young runner’s ruminations about what his neighbors are missing.
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Thanks Annie. I think ‘a woeful slice of life’ has a good ring to it for a blog headline!
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Matthew, came here from Davids Daily Dose. Your story is quite moving, as it goes from pride in running early in the morning, to death and being forgotten. Makes me pause and think.
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Thanks so much and very kind of you to say so. You’ve made my day!
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😊 Matthew, you are welcome!
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