Drive of Horror

Control is an illusion we practice.

I wasn’t speeding.
That’s what made it worse. The road was empty, the engine steady, my hands placed carefully at ten and two like I was being graded. The headlights carved a tunnel through the dark, and I stayed inside it — obedient, alert, awake.
Horror doesn’t always arrive screaming. Sometimes it sits beside you quietly, adjusting the mirrors.

The choice was made miles ago.