He is standing across the road. Everything about him is just as I remember. His dark curly hair is unchanged and he still wears the same suit. His dreamy grey eyes stare through me as if I am a ghost. I am leaning against my shit-box car with a badly rolled wad of tobacco dangling from my mouth and my thumbs in my jean pockets. It must shock him seeing me after so long. Seeing how much I have changed. Maybe he doesn’t recognise me. He turns around and begins to walk away. I spit the tobacco to the ground and stomp on it. “Hey!” I call out. I instinctively step forward to follow him. He glances back at me. His face crumples as he yells out to me as if to stop me. I notice it too late: A car racing towards me. Everything slows down. I can hear my own heartbeat. I thrust my palms out and scream. The cars’ tyres burst and it is flung into the air. It spins above me and crashes onto the ground, landing on its roof. The glass from the windows shatters and the engine explodes, bursting into flames. He rushes to the car, peering inside it. His face contorts in horror and he places a hand over his mouth. “They’re dead. They’re all dead.” He looks at me; half concerned, half disgusted. “It’s your fault. You freak.” I begin to cry. He comes to me and hugs me.
“I didn’t mean to,” I mumble.
“Don’t leave me,” he says.