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Martin would later admit that it had been dark, and it had been raining during the day, and yes, yes, he really should have been more careful. And they would say back to him that 'more careful' in that instance was somewhat of an understatement. To that, Martin would only smile awkwardly, and shrug. Not really knowing what to say to that, but feeling, more or less, like 'well, there's not much we can do about that now, is there?' suited the occasion most times.
But the truth was that at the time, all he had been able to think about was how late it was, how tired he was, and how if he didn't hurry then he'd be even later home to the attic he was still living in, which would mean even less sleep until the morning, which in turn would mean that he would be falling asleep or generally looking unprofessionally tired during his interview the next day.
The interview was to be for a small airline, and they needed a pilot. The pay wouldn't be that good compared to, say, British Airways, or even EasyJet. But it would be something, and he'd be willing to do anything to be able to fulfil the dream he'd had of being a pilot ever since he'd been six.
His official papers, his license and so on, were all still back home. He really had expected to be able to get back earlier, but things had dragged on, and time had flown by the same as it always did. And here he was, racing down the motorway as fast as he could without breaking any limits. And to top it all off, his head was starting to hurt.
The car coming up from behind him did not help.
Fog lights were bad enough when some idiot left them on in the daytime and blinded you when you couldn't look away fast enough, but in the night, when your eyes were used to less light, pupils dilated to take in as much as they could in order to see... left him with spots in his eyes, to be frank.
He briefly considered leaning his head out of the window to shout at the other driver, but figured that it would be useless, and why lower yourself to their level? It'd just start a row, and make him even more irritated and put him in a bad frame of mind before the interview.
Instead, he swerved out, aiming to avoid the other car and move into one of the other lanes.
Life, as is said, never quite works out exactly the way that we intend.
All Martin saw was a flash of light - the fog lights again, was his last thought - and then, darkness.
There was more than that, of course. More that he didn't remember, or didn't want to remember. And he wouldn't. He would wake up the next morning in his own bed, in the attic, and go through his morning routines, completely passing over the fact that the car he'd been driving the night before was nowhere to be found, and neither was almost anything he'd had in the car, other than his clothes and anything he'd had on his person.
He had taken the van to the interview instead. Which wasn't very smart looking, and had an odd smell of old leather and smoke that he couldn't get rid of, but got him there on time, and that was all that really mattered.
He got the job. He came out uncertain whether to grin his face off, or smack himself over the head, because he wasn't going to get paid for it but he got the job. He was going to be a pilot. More than that, he was going to be a Captain.
When he'd parked the van outside the student housing (he was going to move out one day, he kept promising himself, one day, when he could) a girl walked past with a dog on a lead, which whined when he got too near. The girl turned to look at what had upset the thing, saw him, and smiled. He'd started to smile back, but then she faltered, and walked on, suddenly nervous.
He took out his keys, opened the door, and made his way up the stairs. No one paid him any attention. Several letters had arrived for him - bill, bill, junk mail, car tax - he'd have to declare the thing off road now, and-
For a long minute, he stopped thinking entirely.
There was a screeching of tires, fog lights glaring and horn deafening him, metal-
And then, it was gone, leaving him shaking, knees weak and dropping him onto his bed.
He didn't know when or even why he started crying, but he did, and he realised - if you can't bawl your eyes out at something like this, then when could you?
