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Here he was, once again. Back. Back to where everything changed, all those years ago. The man stood swaying in the pounding heat, with his stooped gait and dark, straggly beard matted with the grime of an outdoor life. Perhaps the only feature of his dark and haunted face that seemed to look as if they belonged were his eyes, bright and piercing. Set back in a face weathered by time and toil, gazing out from behind the mulberry birthmark that stained the side of his face.
He gazed across the wasteland, swimming with the mirages that the searing sun inflicted on the scorched and listless ground. All around was the dusty outback, perpetuated at length only by the dull green shrubs wilting by the once-slender Eucalyptus. No foliage remained. The man's gaze was fixed through this desolate landscape to the glinting object poking itself out from behind the termite nest. Inconspicuous for those who did not know that it was here. The man himself knew all too well.
Slowly and shakily he stumbled over the cracked and unyielding earth, pausing only to sweep the sweat that glistened in beads on his brow and cut swathes of dusty tunnels through the dirt ingrained on his weathered features. There lay in front of him a white Landrover that had braved the heat, but with the battlescars on show. Flies buzzed all around the translucent windshield, itself a canvas of tiny footprints. The once white and gleaming paint was reduced to rusty scars, peeling slowly down the great bulk of its metallic body. The tyres were long since flat, holding the car just above the Spinifex shrubs that grew in abundance under the chassis' shade. The back-end of the car was invisible, embedded in the colossal insect dwelling. Like some dying sun, eclipsed by its predecessor the old and scathed vehicle stood, license plate hanging only by a sliver of metal, its numbers washed away by the sun and the heat. This was how the man knew it must be.
Now his mind was a turmoil, raging like some distant battlefield as he remembered the night where he brought and dumped the Cairns hire-car Landrover fifteen years ago to the day. He could still remember his face, as clear as the blue sky above him. Pale and drawn it had been, a cold sweat that had nothing to do with the weather pouring down his forehead and obscuring his vision. He'd had to wipe his head with his hands. The hands that would never be clean. Dirty with a stain that no soap, and no water would ever erase, dirtied by the guilt of conscience and the knowledge of an evil deed.
Her face was also etched into his mind for all eternity, calling him to beyond the grave. She was waiting. Haunting his every waking moment, tormenting him in his sleep. He raised a gloved and grimy hand, unzipped his old and battered backpack and pulled out a crisp bunch of Roses. He reached forward and dropped them lightly on the bonnet. Just as he had done last year, and the year before that. He'd never forget that face of beauty. The natural radiance of a youthful girl. He was just a boy then, surely he wasn't responsible for what he'd done. No, he'd lost his temper. He wasn't an evil man, surely the torment to his mind for fifteen long years was justice enough for any man? Once again he lifted his hand to his face, more slowly this time, to paw away the tears slipping down his cheek.
Why had he been so angry? All she'd done was refuse him a kiss. He couldn't possibly have strangled her. Strangled her with those powerful fists, the fists that now tried to atone for his crimes by laying Roses every year. No, it wasn't his fault. Perhaps this was all a dream after all.
He turned to walk back to his old motorhome, to begin the long drive back to Cairns. He'd convinced himself again, it wasn't his fault. The old Landrover was not her grave. He never abandoned her body in the wilderness. He tried to convince himself, just like he had done last year, and the year before that...
He gazed across the wasteland, swimming with the mirages that the searing sun inflicted on the scorched and listless ground. All around was the dusty outback, perpetuated at length only by the dull green shrubs wilting by the once-slender Eucalyptus. No foliage remained. The man's gaze was fixed through this desolate landscape to the glinting object poking itself out from behind the termite nest. Inconspicuous for those who did not know that it was here. The man himself knew all too well.
Slowly and shakily he stumbled over the cracked and unyielding earth, pausing only to sweep the sweat that glistened in beads on his brow and cut swathes of dusty tunnels through the dirt ingrained on his weathered features. There lay in front of him a white Landrover that had braved the heat, but with the battlescars on show. Flies buzzed all around the translucent windshield, itself a canvas of tiny footprints. The once white and gleaming paint was reduced to rusty scars, peeling slowly down the great bulk of its metallic body. The tyres were long since flat, holding the car just above the Spinifex shrubs that grew in abundance under the chassis' shade. The back-end of the car was invisible, embedded in the colossal insect dwelling. Like some dying sun, eclipsed by its predecessor the old and scathed vehicle stood, license plate hanging only by a sliver of metal, its numbers washed away by the sun and the heat. This was how the man knew it must be.
Now his mind was a turmoil, raging like some distant battlefield as he remembered the night where he brought and dumped the Cairns hire-car Landrover fifteen years ago to the day. He could still remember his face, as clear as the blue sky above him. Pale and drawn it had been, a cold sweat that had nothing to do with the weather pouring down his forehead and obscuring his vision. He'd had to wipe his head with his hands. The hands that would never be clean. Dirty with a stain that no soap, and no water would ever erase, dirtied by the guilt of conscience and the knowledge of an evil deed.
Her face was also etched into his mind for all eternity, calling him to beyond the grave. She was waiting. Haunting his every waking moment, tormenting him in his sleep. He raised a gloved and grimy hand, unzipped his old and battered backpack and pulled out a crisp bunch of Roses. He reached forward and dropped them lightly on the bonnet. Just as he had done last year, and the year before that. He'd never forget that face of beauty. The natural radiance of a youthful girl. He was just a boy then, surely he wasn't responsible for what he'd done. No, he'd lost his temper. He wasn't an evil man, surely the torment to his mind for fifteen long years was justice enough for any man? Once again he lifted his hand to his face, more slowly this time, to paw away the tears slipping down his cheek.
Why had he been so angry? All she'd done was refuse him a kiss. He couldn't possibly have strangled her. Strangled her with those powerful fists, the fists that now tried to atone for his crimes by laying Roses every year. No, it wasn't his fault. Perhaps this was all a dream after all.
He turned to walk back to his old motorhome, to begin the long drive back to Cairns. He'd convinced himself again, it wasn't his fault. The old Landrover was not her grave. He never abandoned her body in the wilderness. He tried to convince himself, just like he had done last year, and the year before that...
Ooh. Another entry. We have almost enough for a competition! Will read it today...
Here he was, once again. Back. Back to where everything changed, all those years ago. The man stood swaying in the pounding heat, with his stooped gait and dark, straggly beard matted with the grime of an outdoor life. Perhaps the only feature of his dark and haunted face that seemed to look as if they belonged were his eyes, bright and piercing. Set back in a face weathered by time and toil, gazing out from behind the mulberry birthmark that stained the side of his face.
He gazed across the wasteland, swimming with the mirages that the searing sun inflicted on the scorched and listless ground. All around was the dusty outback, perpetuated at length only by the dull green shrubs wilting by the once-slender Eucalyptus. No foliage remained. The man's gaze was fixed through this desolate landscape to the glinting object poking itself out from behind the termite nest. Inconspicuous for those who did not know that it was here. The man himself knew all too well.
Slowly and shakily he stumbled over the cracked and unyielding earth, pausing only to sweep the sweat that glistened in beads on his brow and cut swathes of dusty tunnels through the dirt ingrained on his weathered features. There lay in front of him a white Landrover that had braved the heat, but with the battlescars on show. Flies buzzed all around the translucent windshield, itself a canvas of tiny footprints. The once white and gleaming paint was reduced to rusty scars, peeling slowly down the great bulk of its metallic body. The tyres were long since flat, holding the car just above the Spinifex shrubs that grew in abundance under the chassis' shade. The back-end of the car was invisible, embedded in the colossal insect dwelling. Like some dying sun, eclipsed by its predecessor the old and scathed vehicle stood, license plate hanging only by a sliver of metal, its numbers washed away by the sun and the heat. This was how the man knew it must be.
Now his mind was a turmoil, raging like some distant battlefield as he remembered the night where he brought and dumped the Cairns hire-car Landrover fifteen years ago to the day. He could still remember his face, as clear as the blue sky above him. Pale and drawn it had been, a cold sweat that had nothing to do with the weather pouring down his forehead and obscuring his vision. He'd had to wipe his head with his hands. The hands that would never be clean. Dirty with a stain that no soap, and no water would ever erase, dirtied by the guilt of conscience and the knowledge of an evil deed.
Her face was also etched into his mind for all eternity, calling him to beyond the grave. She was waiting. Haunting his every waking moment, tormenting him in his sleep. He raised a gloved and grimy hand, unzipped his old and battered backpack and pulled out a crisp bunch of Roses. He reached forward and dropped them lightly on the bonnet. Just as he had done last year, and the year before that. He'd never forget that face of beauty. The natural radiance of a youthful girl. He was just a boy then, surely he wasn't responsible for what he'd done. No, he'd lost his temper. He wasn't an evil man, surely the torment to his mind for fifteen long years was justice enough for any man? Once again he lifted his hand to his face, more slowly this time, to paw away the tears slipping down his cheek.
Why had he been so angry? All she'd done was refuse him a kiss. He couldn't possibly have strangled her. Strangled her with those powerful fists, the fists that now tried to atone for his crimes by laying Roses every year. No, it wasn't his fault. Perhaps this was all a dream after all.
He turned to walk back to his old motorhome, to begin the long drive back to Cairns. He'd convinced himself again, it wasn't his fault. The old Landrover was not her grave. He never abandoned her body in the wilderness. He tried to convince himself, just like he had done last year, and the year before that...
He gazed across the wasteland, swimming with the mirages that the searing sun inflicted on the scorched and listless ground. All around was the dusty outback, perpetuated at length only by the dull green shrubs wilting by the once-slender Eucalyptus. No foliage remained. The man's gaze was fixed through this desolate landscape to the glinting object poking itself out from behind the termite nest. Inconspicuous for those who did not know that it was here. The man himself knew all too well.
Slowly and shakily he stumbled over the cracked and unyielding earth, pausing only to sweep the sweat that glistened in beads on his brow and cut swathes of dusty tunnels through the dirt ingrained on his weathered features. There lay in front of him a white Landrover that had braved the heat, but with the battlescars on show. Flies buzzed all around the translucent windshield, itself a canvas of tiny footprints. The once white and gleaming paint was reduced to rusty scars, peeling slowly down the great bulk of its metallic body. The tyres were long since flat, holding the car just above the Spinifex shrubs that grew in abundance under the chassis' shade. The back-end of the car was invisible, embedded in the colossal insect dwelling. Like some dying sun, eclipsed by its predecessor the old and scathed vehicle stood, license plate hanging only by a sliver of metal, its numbers washed away by the sun and the heat. This was how the man knew it must be.
Now his mind was a turmoil, raging like some distant battlefield as he remembered the night where he brought and dumped the Cairns hire-car Landrover fifteen years ago to the day. He could still remember his face, as clear as the blue sky above him. Pale and drawn it had been, a cold sweat that had nothing to do with the weather pouring down his forehead and obscuring his vision. He'd had to wipe his head with his hands. The hands that would never be clean. Dirty with a stain that no soap, and no water would ever erase, dirtied by the guilt of conscience and the knowledge of an evil deed.
Her face was also etched into his mind for all eternity, calling him to beyond the grave. She was waiting. Haunting his every waking moment, tormenting him in his sleep. He raised a gloved and grimy hand, unzipped his old and battered backpack and pulled out a crisp bunch of Roses. He reached forward and dropped them lightly on the bonnet. Just as he had done last year, and the year before that. He'd never forget that face of beauty. The natural radiance of a youthful girl. He was just a boy then, surely he wasn't responsible for what he'd done. No, he'd lost his temper. He wasn't an evil man, surely the torment to his mind for fifteen long years was justice enough for any man? Once again he lifted his hand to his face, more slowly this time, to paw away the tears slipping down his cheek.
Why had he been so angry? All she'd done was refuse him a kiss. He couldn't possibly have strangled her. Strangled her with those powerful fists, the fists that now tried to atone for his crimes by laying Roses every year. No, it wasn't his fault. Perhaps this was all a dream after all.
He turned to walk back to his old motorhome, to begin the long drive back to Cairns. He'd convinced himself again, it wasn't his fault. The old Landrover was not her grave. He never abandoned her body in the wilderness. He tried to convince himself, just like he had done last year, and the year before that...