Escape is futile

I am experimenting with my writing. Thoughts pop in and out of my head and I try to capture them. I have a butterfly mind. That’s okay. It sounds beautiful.

I was watching a programme a few days ago, I forget what it was now, and I saw a car being driven on gravel and a thought popped into my head, if you were trying to make a quick getaway, it would be futile. You would be easily heard.

Is this the beginning of a short story? Who knows?

Escape is Futile

She crept forward quietly as a mouse. She had slept in the spare room fully clothed. She told him she wasn’t well. She needed a quick getaway. Life had become oppressive. The walls had closed in.

She heard him snoring. He was asleep, she took another step. She needed to get out now, or she would lose her nerve, any courage she had left was slowly dwindling away. Still, she held her nerve. She opened the back door and closed it ever so quietly behind her. He might not have heard that, but he would hear the car start up; making him aware the car was on the move. He might not know it was her; but he soon would.

It would take a few minutes for him to come around; look out the window and register what was happening. He would see her driving off. Time was on her side, for now. It would take him several minutes to get dressed. She’d hid his car keys. He would know where his spare set was, but that would take time. By then she would be miles away. She would ring him later. Tell him where she was. But not yet. She’d had enough. She needed space – to think what to do next.

Escape she considered, would inevitably be futile – but for now, she had to do something.