A Very Short Story

   
   In Author Study we were asked to write a wedge of prose from the point of view of a free character - someone very alike to ourselves, but with no commitments, no responsibilities and facing no concequences.
   Writing in first person is an incredibly strange experience for me. I have spent my entire writing life in another persons shoes, thinking how they think and talking as they talk. It has been strange writing as me - someone who I spend most of my life attempting to hide.

* * *

   Filling my car up with petrol, my palms start to sweat. I feel clammy. The nozzle shakes in my hand. Another twenty pound lost to the road. 
    I set off, music blasting, singing at the top of my voice, window down, arm resting on the door. Total relaxation. I know it's only the calm before the storm, but I enjoy it anyway.
   They've moved. I don't know this street or this door. I know the car though. Walking up to the house, armed with a key, I happen to trip and scratch the side from boot to bonnet. How unfortunate for him. 
   I ring the doorbell. No answer. And again. Nothing. 
   An engine rumbles. It's his other car. Because, of course, someone who drives three minutes to work four days a week definitely needs two cars. 
   I square my shoulders, lifting them from their slump, and stride forward. His face scrunches into a startled frown. Confusion. Shock. Anxiety. All of the above. I toss the key from my left hand to my right and make a fist. 
   'What're you doing here?' he asks.
   I don't reply. I draw back my arm and swing across, punching him in the jaw. 
   Now I can relax.

* * *

   The moral of this story is don't use freedom as reason or as an excuse.