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The concrete monoliths, belching chimney stacks and corrugated structures of the steel works, and other assorted tokens of heavy industry, were quickly becoming a distant visual. The roads turned from uneven, pothole riddled, double width single carriageways into narrow tree lined somewhat uneven single carriageways. In comparison the countryside, to which they had transitioned, was awash with green/brown colours of all hues, shades and gradients one would associate with a mid-autumn afternoon. Michael’s view was from that of a swift moving car that made its way through the twisting, undulating countryside. He sat in the front passenger seat and as the trees, bushes, and ferns passed by he was reminded of the walks he would take in the countryside with his family. Hours were spent each weekend walking through woods, forest and fields enjoying the crisp clean air and the absolute freedom that the countryside afforded him. He had always found the city to be a claustrophobic place. Cold, soulless, and repressive. The freedoms of his youth and teenage years had been replaced by the bindings of the capital’s shackles. Manacled as he was to the master that we commonly refer to as work.

Throughout his formative years Michael’s affinity with the countryside had grown with each passing day. Not only would he spend his weekends enjoying a familial sojourn in a tent located next to the running waters of a brook or stream but he would while away many hours after school soaking up, what he referred to in later life, the spirituality of nature. Its essence, its aura. The countryside and all its nature were, to Michael, the purest form of life. It was unsullied by the crude, as he had come to view it, accoutrements of the so-called modern, progressive life that all city dwellers would insist makes city living much superior to that of some out-of-town bumpkin living in his straw roofed cottage. He had begun to hate his life in the city, slowly choking on its fumes. The disregard for anything that wasn’t synthetic, instant, falsely gratifying or a combination of all three was beginning to take its toll on him. The optimist he had once been was slowly mutating into the very thing he despised. A cynical cog in an unrelenting consumerist machine. Work, Earn, Spend. Work, Earn, Spend. Work all the hours humanly possible. Earn enough money to pay rent, mortgage, bills, and taxes. Spend the rest on any and all manner of vices. Whatever gets you through this illusion of living we call life. A good consumer is a good citizen. Michael’s mind had wandered from appreciating the beauty of the countryside surrounding him. Now his mind was cycling through the cynical mantra he had become accustomed to espousing, internally at least. His city life had stripped away almost all thoughts of positivity and indeed almost all memories of the luscious lands in which he grew up. He moved his eyes to glance a view from the driver’s side window. It was equally as beautiful. He starred ahead and focused on the undulations in the road even they had taken on a beauty of their own in comparison to the flat, car clogged roads of the city.

Michael estimated that the drive was passing the hour mark. The last time he had left the city was for his Father’s funeral. At that time Michael did not possess the hate for the city he now carried in him. It is true to say, in fact, he had a certain level of admiration for certain elements of city living. The ease at which essential items could be purchased at almost any time of the day, rather than having to wait for a weekly delivery at the local village shop. The cosmopolitan selection of bars, eateries and restaurants had exposed him to food and drink that he had never dreamed of, never mind dreamed of eating and the range of entertainment the city had to offer had bewildered him for many, many months upon his settling in the capital. But his return to the countryside had re-ignited his love for nature. His love for its purity, decency, and beauty. When Michael had returned to the city he could no longer settle. The novelty of consumerism and gluttony had been replaced with the admiration of nature’s simplistic ways. Yet he was unable to enjoy anything that his beloved countryside had to offer as he was drawn more and more into the machinery. His work in the financial sector brought with it plentiful rewards, but a schedule that was unrelenting. He could afford the finest the city had to offer. Yet he was not afforded the one thing he wanted in life. The simple purity of nature. Thoughts lay heavy in his mind, thoughts of his childhood, thoughts of simpler times his eyes once again gazed out of the passenger window.

The car in which Michael had been travelling for nearly two hours, so he estimated, turned left, and proceeded down a narrow dirt covered lane. The lane was lined with knee-high ferns and clumps of bracken. The ferns gently brushed the side of the car as it slowly made its way down the lane. The ferns reminded Michael of his childhood. He recalled the times he would hide in them when he was a young boy and then jump out at just the right time scarring his older brother into states of semi-hyperventilation. His eyes narrowed as he chuckled to himself internally. The lane gave way to a clearing in which an old cottage, and associated out-buildings, stood. The car stopped next to a small stone building, slightly bigger than a shed. The driver exited the now stationary vehicle and briskly walked over toward the aforementioned stone out-building. They opened the solid looking wooden door and disappeared into the darkness. Michael gazed out of the front windscreen. A few feet in front of the car was a clump of bracken in which he could see the distinctive petals of a white chrysanthemum flower. He gazed upon its simple beauty and envied the way in which it appeared to be cradled by the bracken which surrounded it. How he missed the countryside. His moment of admiration was soon interrupted by the reappearance of the driver in the periphery of his vision, and the crude makeshift stretcher they were pulling through the doorway of the shed.

Michael shifted his eyes to the left as far as he could physically move them in an attempt to gain a better view of the bizarre visual, he had just witnessed. Before he had chance to focus the passenger-side door opened, and he could smell the crisp country air that enveloped the inside of the car in which he had been held captive. His body was still paralysed from the effects of an unknown, to him at least, substance that he presumed had been de-cantered into his drink a couple of hours early during his lunch date. The boredom and loneliness of city living had become too much for Michael and he had taken to arranging dates with anyone who would accept his offer. His previous attempts at building any kind of meaningful relationship had all been for nought and now his latest attempt to snare someone into anything resembling intelligent, or stimulating conversation had led to him been the one who was now ensnared. This snare, however, was laid for much more nefarious ends. A slender leather gloved hands slid underneath his thighs swiftly followed by a hand reaching its way behind the middle of his back. Michael was of slight build and average height his weight had rapidly declined in recent months, a side effect of his rising anxiety. His mind quickly refocussed on his current situation, and all thoughts of his failed attempts at dating were quickly quashed. Although he was in a paralysed state, he knew he was slowly moving, not because of any physical sensation he could feel, but rather his view changing from that of inside the car to the outside. His body was deftly positioned onto the stretcher with the precision of someone who clearly had experience levering and hoisting weights similar to if not greater in size than their own, and within a relatively short time he was laying flat on his back starting at sky. The warm red-amber glow of the Autumn afternoon conjured up images of a perversely inviting furnace in Michael’s mind. But now wasn’t the time to fill his mind with jocular interpretations of his surroundings and, as the sky began to move in a parallax fashion against the clouds, Michael knew he was slowly been ferried into the darkness of the stone shed.

The distinctive musty smell of the shed reminded Michael of his childhood and a similar out-building that adjoined the family home. He kept his butterfly collection there, along with his jars of homemade perfume he would make from fallen rose petals. Often the scented water would be given as a Birthday or Christmas gift and the recipient would graciously accept the gift, regardless of the fact it was only slightly better smelling than manure. Such is the unconditional appreciation of family. The door of the shed was ajar, and a gentle breeze blew inside. Michael was taken aback, not by the crisp Autumnal breeze itself but rather the fact he could feel it flowing over his skin. The paralysis, or to be more accurate the drug causing the paralysis, must be leaving his body. He also found that he could now move his head slightly from side-to-side, millimetres only though, so powerful was the drug that had induced his current state. Coupled with the returning sensation of touch he knew the effects of the drug were slowly wearing off. It would have, in most people, induced a feeling of hope, however false that hope might be, that escape from this quite obviously fatal situation might be possible. But not so in Michael. Instead he held his head fast and focused on the sensation of the crisp, cool breeze brushing his face. Each molecule caressing the pores of his skin. An exfoliation of sorts, scrubbing away the dirt and grime of the reluctant city dweller, he began to feel cleansed of the years of cynicism that had permeated his body, indeed his very soul, and with each brush of air against his face he felt the purity of nature wash over him.

The stretcher on which Michael lay had what could only be described as a rudimentary drainage channel positioned to the right of his neck, underneath which his captor had placed a large object that resembled a tin bath. His vision had become accustomed to the darkness of the shed and above him he could see the shapes of the beams holding up the roof of his now apparent mausoleum. The view however was quickly obscured by his captor standing above him, the features of their face weren’t visible in the near dark, but its outline could be traced. There was little time, however, to remember the delicate features of the face that looked at him across the bistro table a few short hours ago. All that was immaterial now. He felt a pressure against his neck and a faint sound that sounded like a knife slicing, or more accurately, slightly tearing a rare steak. Michael closed his eyes and darkness enveloped him.

In those last few seconds, an image appeared in the darkness. A single white chrysanthemum. Its simplistic beauty drew a smile to Michael’s mouth albeit briefly. A singular symbol of all that he found in nature. Purity, Beauty and Peace. The image faded. Michael’s listless body lay prone on the stretcher as a single drop of rain fell from the sky and splashed onto the chrysanthemum still cradled outside. The tear shaped droplet dripped from the flower and lay to rest on the soil from which it grew.