The engine stuttered to life as the driver turned the key in the ignition for the umpteenth time, inching the truck forward ever so slightly before yet again coming to a halt. How many times he repeated this process he no longer knew; he had lost count hours ago. The monotonous meniality of this cycle was driving him nigh to insanity; solace was sought only in the occasional drag of a cigarette. Gazing out of the driver side window, he found himself mirrored in the faces of the other drivers, the lines of fatigue fighting those of frustration for prominence within their features. For as far as his sight would permit, the driver saw nothing save coloured hunks of metal and wheels.
In combat of the dampening silence, the driver decided to turn on the radio.
"...The British military has been called in to help clear the gridlock caused by convoys of
trucks snaked on roads near Dover, the main ferry port for France and the continent. The
Road Haulage Association estimated that there were up to 10,000 trucks backed-up near
the port…"
With an exasperated sigh, he flicked it off again immediately. 10,000, with me being one of them. Those bastards better hurry, he thought to himself as he lit another cigarette, greedily inhaling his only source of dopamine.
As if the year hadn’t been bad enough. The virus had run rampant in his hometown, tearing through communities and families with no remorse. After witnessing their less than lacklustre attempt at containing the virus, what little faith he had left in the government was dissipating into thin air - much like the meagre stream of income that barely kept his family afloat. Rotten to the core, the lot of them. He had often suspected that the lowly citizenry meant nothing to those sitting loftily above in the seats of power, yet he always held out a glimmer of faith and goodwill. However, the pandemic had proven his suspicions to be correct all along; one hand washed the other as the rich and affluent stockpiled their wealth at the expense of everyone else. His contempt hardened incrementally with each passing day and perished life.
The last straw was the death of his mother. He had prayed with all his conviction and might that his family be spared of grief, but Lady Death inevitably found her way to their doorstep as well. All he could do was stand and watch helplessly, a wall of plexiglass separating mother and son as she drew her final breath, the cursed image of her lifeless and frail body forever etched into his mind, the eerie shrill of the flatlined heart monitor hauntingly immortalised in his dreams.
Sunk deep in the mire of his thoughts, a sudden, jarring honk from the truck behind ripped him back to reality. He felt one, singular tear roll lonesomely down his cheek, carrying the full burden of his culminated frustration and grievance. Wiping it away hastily, he started his engine and pushed on ever so slightly once more. Be strong. For her.
Flicking away the empty packet, the driver absentmindedly lit his last cigarette. Shit...they were supposed to last the whole journey.In a last-ditch effort to break free of his brooding state, the driver turned the radio on again, arbitrarily changing the station. Google, I’m feeling lucky. Amidst the static interference, a song materialised.
...I’m driving home for Christmas
Oh, I can’t wait to see those faces
I’m driving home for Christmas, yeah
Well, I’m moving down that line… [1]
The sheer irony of the situation was inescapable. Shaking his head, a wry, sarcastic grimace flashed across his face, disappearing as suddenly as it had materialised. Of all the fucking Christmas songs…
...So I sing for you
Though you can’t hear me
When I get through
And feel you near me…
Within him, the dam he had desperately built to contain all his pent-up heartache erupted, each wave that crashed down in time with the music representing yet another trail and tribulation he had to force himself through this year. He was openly sobbing now, unable to control his emotions any longer.
...Driving home for Christmas
With a thousand memories
I take look at the driver next to me
He’s just the same
Just the same…
His tear-blurred gaze drifted across the sea of trucks around him. Remarkably, sprouting from amidst the overwhelming misery, he found a strange sense of solace in knowing that he was not alone in his feelings; the collective air of languish within those present weighed heavier than the wintry fog surrounding them. Looking up wistfully, he made out the first flakes of snow falling gently down. A long, long drive home indeed it will be…
[1] Driving Home for Christmas - Chris Rea (1986), a classic Christmas song.
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