Thomas drove down River Road, heading west, the steep embankment of the valley towering on his right and the frozen river on his left. Snow whipped around his car in thick veils and the wind whistled through some worn-out seal or another. The heater was on high, and the old Ford wasn't known for its superior sound insulation. He could barely hear himself think, certainly couldn't hear the radio. Not that his car got good reception. That was okay, though. Who needed radio, anyway?

He had no problem hearing the road, could hear every pebble beneath him, could hear it all right there beneath his feet as if there was hardly anything separating him from a severe case of road rash. Probably there wasn't. That was fine, too. No problem at all. At least he had a car. A lot of people didn't.

The &^^%%#& in the Mercedes ahead seemed to think the speed limit was actually a limit and not a recommendation and the @&%^^%# in the Infinity behind him, by the way he was riding Thomas' ass, seemed to blame the slow progress on him. And that was fine, too, he told himself. He breathed slowly, deeply. Live and let live. It's fine.

He inched his way left, toward the oncoming lane, hoping to glimpse a chance to pass, but headlights could be seen and with this snowfall it was hard to tell how far. He moved back to the middle of his lane, behind the slow Mercedes. Mercedes just wasn't in a hurry. People could not be expected to feel the rush of another. No big deal. It's fine. Really.

The driver behind him apparently had much better depth perception. Infinity swung out into the oncoming lane and raced past, kicking up snow in his wake which slithered down and across the road like phantom snakes. Well that's risky, Thomas thought, but to each his own. He's just in more of a hurry than Thomas, like Thomas is in more of a hurry than Mercedes. No big deal. He breathed deeply, thought of where he was going, saw red, thought of something else. Through it all he'd maintained his self control. That was something. He never lost control.

But then Infinity changed his mind, the *^fucker actually changed his mind, and was trying to squeeze in between Thomas and Mercedes. Thomas pressed the break, felt the tail end begin to wiggle, let up a bit. None of this happened quickly enough for Infinity so he squeezed in anyway, forcing Thomas to press harder on the break. His tail end wiggled a little and then a lot, on the verge of losing control now. Thomas hit the horn. He hit it with his palm, hit it again, then punched it, punched it again, then punched it ruthlessly, punched it like it was the face of whoever was behind those *^$@ing tinted windows of the Infinity, punched it over and over until he'd come to a safe stop and his knuckles were bleeding.

He leaned back in the seat and breathed deeply, slowly, surveying his surroundings.

"!!Fucki" he screamed, and punched the horn again.

Ahead was the High Level Bridge, black but dressed in frost and snow, looming in the sky between the valley's shoulders. Everything looked dead. Even the evergreens did, some of which weren't green but brown. Snow blanketed it all, softening edges, making everything look like a plastic kid-friendly version of itself. The look of everything was soft and rounded, the feel of it was cold and sharp. This like the evening itself; everything about this evening reaked of death and pain and sharp things, but it all still looked perfectly benign.

It's fine, though.

Really.

It wasn't, but it is now.

It isn't that he never loses control, he thought. It's that he loses control where doing so can only hurt himself.

He felt better. Less dangerous.

With that, he turned the wheel and let his foot off the break, straightened out, and went on his way.

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updated Jan 13 '11 by Atropos