Free I Am the Messenger by Markus Zusak

the balding grass. She almost smiles from the pain—from the beauty of it. She’s out of herself.
    Barefoot.
    More alive than anyone I’ve ever witnessed.
    They run at the line.
     
    And the other girl wins.
    Like always.

    As they go over the line, Sophie collapses, and down there, on the ground, she rolls onto her back and looks up at the sky. There’s ache in her arms and ache in her legs and heart. But on her face is the beauty of the morning, and for the first time, I think, she recognizes it: 5:30 a.m.
    Sophie’s father claps, like always, only this time, he’s not alone. The other girl’s father claps now, too.
    “That’s a hell of a daughter you got there,” he says.
    Sophie’s father only nods modestly and says, “Thank you. So have you.”

 

    I throw my Styrofoam coffee cup in the bin with my sausage-roll wrapper and begin to walk away. As usual, I’ve got sauce all stuck on my fingers.
    I can hear her feet behind me, but I don’t turn around. I want to hear her voice.
    “Ed?”
    It’s unmistakable.
    I turn around and smile at a girl who’s got blood on her knees and feet. From her left knee, it runs crookedly down her shin. I point to it and say, “You better get that looked after.”
    Calmly she answers. “I will.”
    Some discomfort stands between us now, and I know I don’t belong here anymore. Her hair’s out and it’s beautiful. Her eyes are worth drowning in, and her mouth speaks to me.
    “I just,” she says, “wanted to say thanks.”
    “For getting you spiked and hurt?”
    “No.” She refuses my lie. “Thanks, Ed.”
    I give in. “It’s a pleasure.” My voice sounds like gravel compared to hers.
    When I step closer, I notice she doesn’t look away from me now. She doesn’t tilt her head or send her eyes to the ground. She lets herself look and be with me.
    “You’ve got beauty,” I tell her. “You know that, don’t you?”
    Her face goes a little red as she accepts it.
    “Will I see you again?” she asks, and to be honest, I think I’ll regret what I say next.
    “Not at five-thirty in the bloody morning.”
    She twists on one of her feet, laughing, silently, to herself.
    I’m about to leave when she asks, “Ed?”
    “Sophie?”
    It shocks her that I know her name, but she goes on. “Are you some kind of saint or something?”
    Inside, I laugh. Me? A saint? I list what I am. Taxi driver. Local deadbeat. Cornerstone of mediocrity. Sexual midget. Pathetic cardplayer .
    I say my final words to her.
    “No, I’m not a saint, Sophie. I’m just another stupid human.”
    We smile a last smile, and I walk away. I feel her watching me, but I don’t look back.

 

    It feels like the mornings clap their hands.
    To make me wake.
     
    In the mornings of my eyes, I see three things each time.
    Milla.
    Sophie.
    45 Edgar Street.
    The first two hold me up with the rising of the sun. The third strips me and hands shivers to my skin and to my flesh and bones.
     
    I spend the late of each night watching repeats of Dukes of Hazzard . The big fat guy always sits there eating marshmallows at his desk. What’s that bloke’s name again? I asked myself when I saw the first episode. Then Daisy came on-screen and said, “What’s up, Boss Hogg?”
    Boss Hogg.
    Of course.
    God, Daisy looks fantastic in her tight jeans. Each night when I see her my pulse quickens immeasurably, but she’s always gone quicker than she arrives.
    The Doorman shoots me a dirty look every time.
    “I know,” I say.
    But then she comes on again and there’s no point arguing. Beautiful women are the torment of my existence.
     
    The nights and Dukes pass by.
    I drive my cab with a headache that waits behind me. Every time I turn around, it’s there.
    “Thanks, mate,” I say. “That’ll be sixteen fifty.”
    “ Sixteen fifty?” whinges the old guy in his suit. His words are like froth in my head, boiling, rising, and falling.
    “Just pay up.” I don’t have the patience for this today. “You