one more troubled soul » petekey

One

One large raindrop plopped on his window, signaling the beginning of the storm. His phone in the backseat went off, a generic bluegrass guitar sounding over the pound of the rain. "Ugh.. I..." He glanced back, seeing the contact picture of his mother smiling at him. He jerked his wheel, pulling to the side of the now muddy road. He leaned over and grabbed the phone, answering it and holding it to his ear. "Mom?"

"Peter," she replied, sounding nervous. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, looking outside at the rain, which was only coming down harder each second. "Are you driving?"

"No." He replied, sighing. I'd rather be. "What's up?" The conversation needed to end immediately. He was already itching for the road. Rain or shine, he promised himself he'd keep going. It went for his head, too.

For years he had dealt with an inner battle between dark and light, rain and shine. He'd give himself headaches if he tried to figure out his feelings. The days when it rained, a threatening black cloud hung over him. The world was overhung and grey. Everything was too wet, too slippery and too messy. His thoughts were muddled and angry and he thought about just drowning himself in his own flood. But when it was sunny, the world was perfect. It wasn't sunny very often. His mother's voice broke through his thoughts, and his eyes widened. "Hm? What? Sorry, I wasn't..."

"Drifting off again, I see," she mumbled. The phrase was simple, but there was a whole rant behind it. Even on the phone, Pete could see his mother biting her tongue. "I just called to warn you that there was a storm on the way. I didn't know if-" Another roll of terrifying thunder cut her off. "I assume you know. Sorry."

"Yeah," Pete said, flicking off the radio. The static was gone and it was eerily silent in the truck. "Hey, mom?" He knew neither of them wanted to have a heart to heart. They shared a dislike for any sort of human interaction, including each other. "I, uh, miss you."

"It's only been a few hours." She replied briskly. No "I miss you, too". That's how it was with everyone. "Have a nice trip." And the line went silent before he could even reply. It wasn't like he was going to, but it would have been nice to at least pretend he would have. She should have waited.

And with that he tossed his phone into the back again, continuing his trip down the road, which was quickly being turned into a muddy river. He sent up a prayer to a God he didn't believe in that his car wouldn't get stuck, and kept going. The rain was coming down unbelievably hard. His entire windshield was a blurry screen, and he squinted to try to make any sense of the mess before him.

And then he saw something.

Something right in the middle of the road. And he was hurling towards it at seventy five miles per hour, and it was alive and moving and so tall and so human. Pete slammed on his brake and let out a yelp of surprise and fear, sending a fake prayer up once again. The truck stopped as quickly as it could, and the blurry, trembling figure beyond the windshield was walking away, seemingly unscathed and unfazed. Pete was too busy catching his breath to notice where the almost victim had gone. He was running a nervous hand through his hair and telling himself everything was okay, and then he was cursing the rain and his mother and his need for speed and adventure and the damn person in the road.

The rain began to lighten up, and Pete's windshield wipers revealed a lanky person slowly making their way out of his sight. But Pete saw them. He watched as they traveled to the side of his car, trying to escape and forget about the encounter (which is precisely what Pete's head was telling him to do, but his heart made him reach over and roll down one of the windows). "Hey!" his heart made him yell out. It had a mind of its own.

The person had definitely been planning to ditch the scene quickly. They were already starting to disappear into the misty distance of the fields beside the road, but they turned around. Pete squinted again, not being able to make out any details. The person didn't move. They just stayed completely still and examined Pete just as intently. "Are you okay?" Pete added. His head was making him put his foot on the gas, but his heart was stopping him from stepping on it. They were arguing with each other, stirring up another war. He wanted the stranger to reply and yell over their fighting. But the stranger never did, only turned around again and started to walk off again.

Just leave, Pete. Let them be a stranger. Just another oxygen breather. His mind was racing with those sort of thoughts, but his heart was beating out a different story. "You look lost." Pete hadn't really yelled, just spoke loudly enough to be heard over the now light rain. The thunder that sounded again seemed so far away. His statement had apparently caught the stranger's attention, and soon they were walking closer. As they emerged from the mist, Pete frowned at the soaking wet clothes that hung off a lanky and thin body. A few heavy looking backpacks hung off their shoulders and in one hand was a suitcases, the other, a sign. Pete tried to read what it said, but to no avail. He was distracted by the voice that finally called back to him.

"Maybe." It was one word. But there was so much behind and within and above it. Fear, weariness, and sadness. That's what the word maybe was all about. It was a word of in-betweens, a word stuck in limbo. It was a word that struck fear in people who wanted answers, sleep and happiness. It was a word of disappointment and hope. Maybe.

And the voice had been odd. Nothing like Pete had ever heard before. It didn't seem to fit anywhere in the crooks of his mind, which was now scolding him for interacting with a stranger. Part of Pete thought maybe he was jealous that this person was living an even more anonymous and blurry life than he was, and that his own selfishness wanted to change that. The other part of Pete thought that he was showing compassion, and he hoped that was the case, even though he doubted it was. "Maybe?" he repeated, letting out a airy chuckle.

He thought the person nodded. It looked like they did. "Well, you do look lost," Pete returned to his original point, wanting to rip his own heart out. It was leading him down a dangerous path. "And, Christ, it's raining." The stranger took more steps towards his truck. They weren't really a stranger now though, were they? Not just an oxygen breather. They now had an identity, even if it was only a vague one. A big one or not, they were now a Story to tell.

They, Pete finally noticed, was a he.

He was close enough now. Pete took note of fingerless gloves and a beanie, and the long, wet hair that stuck to the sides of his face. He noticed the glasses he wore that were speckled with rain, and the dark eyes behind them. He was close to enough to even notice the muddy combat boots he wore. Untied. His suitcase was adorned with stickers, too worn and old for Pete to guess what of. But at this moment, Pete realized he had been doing a lot of staring. And so he cleared his throat, and his heart lurched forward as he did, pushing a question from his lips that his brain would've never allowed. "Do you need a ride?"

The shock of his own words must've been noticed by the stranger, who had taken a tentative step forward and then two more back. He did that for a while, stepping back and forth. He was a living, breathing embodiment of the word maybe. Until he finally, he stepped forward. And then he took another step, and another, and oh God, another, and he was close enough to reach out and touch the truck. He was close enough that Pete could see him shaking. "I-I do," whispered the stranger, so gently and quietly that Pete wondered if he actually meant it. He raised an eyebrow, but the other man didn't budge. He only looked at Pete with the most exhausted gaze he had ever seen.

Pete could drive away. He could slam on the gas and race off, maybe crushing a few toes of the stranger standing too close. He could drive away, and feel guilty for the next few hours as he drove in silence. But the guilt would wear off, just like everything did. It was irrational to feel guilty about a stranger. But Pete was anything but rational.

His guilt would never wear off. He would have nightmares in stiff hotel beds or the backseat, tossing and turning as he would imagine the shaking stranger with the quiet voice. He would think about the items in his backpacks, soaking wet and ruined, and how eventually his shoes would fall apart and his stomach would rumble for the next couple miles as he walked. He would think about how in the twisted world of maybe, he had settled on disappointment above hope. And so Pete unlocked the car doors.

They unlocked with that loud, sharp clicking sound, and the stranger's eyes widened. He clutched the suitcase in his hand tightly. White knuckles. There was that fear again. He was just as scared as Pete was. Everyone was.

Pete offered a smile, small and reassuring and put his hands on the steering wheel. He took a deep breath. "Hop in."