The Car

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He walks at a steady pace, tapping his cane on the mud-caked road. The car is still there, a grotesque bas-relief amidst the scenic greenery. It was his car once, his prized possession, his black beauty.

He walks towards the car and runs a loving hand over it. Twenty years ago, his wife, her mind addled by alcohol and anger, had crashed his car at the very spot. He hadn’t remarried and he never purchased another car.

The bolts he had removed from the brakes all those years ago still occupy a prominent spot along his wife’s picture.

Written for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. This week’s prompt is from Ted Strutz. Please click here to read other stories.