The Driver

He brushed the tyre to the curb as he reversed out of the driveway.

“This has happened before.” He told himself, not wanting to believe it.

Once out of the gate, he shifted the stick and accelerated straight into the junction. As he looked at the streets, hoping traffic would clear for him. He could not be late. His friend was in the hospital, dying. He had been hit by a taxi.

As he took a left turn off the next junction, a motorist skidded past him, regained balance and glared at him as he continued past.

“That has happened before.” He told himself.

The world had often chided him for being what they called a careless driver. They said he never watched the traffic, but now it was him they had to look for for assistance.

A fellow driver gave way to him and started honking wildly. “Moron!” He heard the man shout from the window.

“That,” he said to himself, “has happened before.”

Some called it déjà vu, some called it a dream. Others thought it eerie.

As he looked at the hospital in the distance, thankful that he could make it in time, he noticed the traffic light turn red.

‘I can make it!’ He thought and stepped on the accelerator.

Suddenly, the vehicles on his right began to come at him all at once. He had to make it past them. He nervously stepped on the accelerator. He crossed a car, and another, and then a rider, a bus. Beside the bus was a black taxi.

“This has all happened before.” He swore.

This happened every night. The rider was glaring at someone else, the driver shouting at someone else. But the taxi? That was a few inches short of his door now. And that was real.

Then it struck him: this happened every night. No wonder nobody noticed him on the street. He was nowhere on it.

The taxi made contact, shattering the window on his right.

This was how he had died.