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She was selfish, shallow, and entitled. She was awarded a scholarship to study at the school of sceptical philosophy. She tells herself it is her merit, but her father is on the board of governors.
She is selfish, shallow, and entitled. She has been awarded a scholarship to study at the school of sceptical philosophy. She tells herself it is her merit, but her father is on the board of governors.
He was an artist. He once was a firebrand, challenging the orthodoxy, the corporate cliques that dominate the public funding of science - people like her father - for their spiritually bankrupt ways.
He is an artist. He once was a firebrand, challenging the orthodoxy, the corporate cliques that dominate the public funding of science - people like her father - for their spiritually bankrupt ways.
The establishment knocked him back, suppressed his views and drove him towards ruin.
The establishment knocked him back, suppressed his views, and drove him towards ruin. At a low point on the high mountain, a girl rescued him. She was the daughter of a priest. Her family took him in and rehabilitated him. His price for redemption was compromise – he accepted that there was not a perfect world and his contribution to it should be practical and good works. He found her religion, and inner peace, but his edge was blunted. He opted out of the mainstream and lived in a comfortable pile at the edge of town.  
He went into the high mountain. At a low point, he was rescued. She was the daughter of a local priest. Her family took him in and rehabilitated him. His price for redemption was compromise – he accepted that there was not a perfect world and his contribution to it should be practical and good works. In her religion he found an inner peace, but his creative edge was blunted. He opted out of the mainstream and lived in a comfortable pile at the edge of town.  
Her boyfriend was Orton Hatch, the son of one of daddy’s partners. He wasn’t bright but he was pretty and he loved her to bits. She would often mock him fearfully in front of their friends at their regular table in the fashionable eaterie, between bouts of rudeness to the serving staff. He was so faithful to her that he took the blows and kept smiling. Even that she mocked.  
Her boyfriend was Orton Hatch, the son of one of daddy’s partners. He wasn’t bright but he was pretty and he loved her to bits. She would often mock him fearfully in front of their friends at their regular table in the fashionable eaterie, between bouts of rudeness to the serving staff. He was so faithful to her that he took the blows and kept smiling. Even that she mocked.  
Her set discussed the fashionable artists, couturiers and musicians. They talked about Him, the firebrand whose edge was dulled.  
Her set discussed the fashionable artists, couturiers and musicians. They talked about Him, the firebrand whose edge was dulled.  
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The car swept through the bends. She remembered a blinding flash but she didn’t register that it was a speed camera. There was a low cloud which obscured the moon. It broke and then the she saw it : this rainbow array of light in flecks and sparkles and shooting stars. It was magnificent and bewitching and beautiful and peaceful and she began to see a truth about herself that she didn’t like.  
The car swept through the bends. She remembered a blinding flash but she didn’t register that it was a speed camera. There was a low cloud which obscured the moon. It broke and then the she saw it : this rainbow array of light in flecks and sparkles and shooting stars. It was magnificent and bewitching and beautiful and peaceful and she began to see a truth about herself that she didn’t like.  
The artist peered over the bonnet with a blank look. It, ah, it looks like an engine sweetheart. I don’t know why it isn’t going. I’ll call the garage but this late at night and this far out they might be some time.  
The artist peered over the bonnet with a blank look. It, ah, it looks like an engine sweetheart. I don’t know why it isn’t going. I’ll call the garage but this late at night and this far out they might be some time.  
His wife smiled kindly and said, I suppose I did not marry you for your mechanical skills. She grew up on a farm, and had tuned her share of engines. She looked in and checked the obvious points. The plugs, the points, the barbecue, the fan belt.  
His wife said, “I suppose I did not marry you for your mechanical skills”. Inside she railed at the abject impracticality. Where she came from, in the mountains, nature did not compromise, and her people were thin lipped pragmatists. They did not look kindly on those who could not solve their own problems. She had tuned her share of engines. She looked in and checked the obvious points. The plugs, the points, the carburettor, the fan belt.  
He got behind the wheel and turned the key but nothing would go.  
He got behind the wheel and turned the key.
He called the garage and then the clouds opened and they were showered in the most glorious celestial light.  
She pulled her hands out as the starter motor kicked. She said, “careful sweetheart,” and swore quietly to herself. “Let me know if you are going to do that okay?”
It is a sign, he said. Even when the chips are down there is beauty and there is light. Come back inside and watch the show he said but she insisted on trying one more thing.  
He tried again, but the engine wouldn't turn. He saw in this a bleak symbolism a less sensitive man would not. He worked his jaw.  
The corvette
He called the garage. They promised to send out a truck. He walked back to the car. the clouds opened and they were showered in the most glorious celestial light.
He watched the rainbow of sparks across a quadrant of the sky  –  he saw portents and beauty and hope and apocalypse. It validated his forthcoming metaphorical scheme. Comet 2 would be released soon. It doubled down on the first one. It is always darkest before dawn.
“It is a sign”, he said. “Even when the chips are down there is beauty and there is light.
She worked under the bonnet. “hold on, I'm nearly done.”
“I called the garage.” He tensed his jaw.
Beneath the bonnet, she tensed hers. 
“Come on,” he said, “come back inside and watch the show. ” 
She insisted on trying one more thing.  
The Corvette left the road as it crested Shooter's Hill. It prescribed a flat trajectory across the dip. It yawed gently forward and crumpled into the rear window of a stationary Toyota, parked up with hazards on and bonnet up, on the shoulder of the highway. Sparks burst in the night sky, and on the road, and from the sirens and rotating lights of the paramedics and rescue services and ambulance and police as they assembled at the scene.
They kept the three involved in artificial comas for weeks afterwards.
 
Flash forward
Even after she completed her sentence the pain still came. A dull ache across her shoulders and down her back. She threw herself into rehabilitation. She did all the exercises, took all the effort but the pain still came. It was insidious, it crept like a Web across every part of her body.
Orton came to visit once a month for ten years. She sat, stoney faced across the divide. He brought her news. They fell into a routine: he would speak, he would recount the goings on, and she would listen, mute, not once looking up from the table.
He knew she appreciated it. Notwithstanding that she never replied  –  she did not have to come, and hardly did so out of politeness  –  that was not her way  –  but she came, and was ready, waiting for him at ten past the hour, on the last Friday of the month.
He told her all kinds of news but never once mentioned the accident.
Orton was at the prison gates the day she walked out, stiffly, aided by a walking stick.
For the first time in a decade, she spoke to him.
“Why are you even here?”
“I care about you.”
She hobbled past him.
“it’s a long walk back into town, even if you don't have a stick.”
Wordlessly she accepted the ride.
“we have a spare room. You can stay for a couple of of days. After that, Marla would prefer it if you left.”
She didn't ask her Marla was. Orton figured it was easy enough to work out.
“We have a busy house. Your mother's place is ready. With permission from the executors we went and cleaned it up.”
She didn't ask. It explained why the visits ceased.
The pain didn't stop. The therapists eventually stopped visiting.
She kept the house immaculate and walked, in pain, a mile to the store each day. The pain was always there  –  not always in the forefront, but ready to wash over her if she made a particular motion.
 
The hospital kept him in a coma for six months while his body reknitted.