"Do you have everything?" he asked, a hint of worry in his voice.
"Yes," I replied. "Please, let's just get going." Strange that he could still worry about me. Strange that I could still worry about him. He was a murderer, he was death. I was stupid to not have realized it sooner and I was foolish to think that I could love him.
The truck was parked along the same stop we had first come to, stopped so that we could stretch. The clock read 10 p.m. but we hadn't stopped. I knew that once Ethan dropped me off he would come back the way we had come, and keep going. It didn't reach me anymore; I didn't care if I never saw him again. It was best like that. I could go back home, he could continue running. We could both act as if this hadn't happened. As if I hadn't dropped that phone. As if he hadn't lost his knife.
I slipped into the truck immediately, did the seatbelt and waited. The other door opened a few minutes later. The truck started up again, and I just knew Ethan was going to say something. Something he would regret saying, and something I would regret answering. Either that...or the question would just be awkward or pointless in general. "Still sure you want to do this?" he finally asked. I turned. The question wasn't a command or something to make me feel guilt; it was just a question. A simple question.
That's something I've been asking myself this entire time, Ethan. That wouldn't be good. That answer would solve nothing. "Things can get complicated if I don't leave," I told him simply. Plain. Bland. No emotion, concern or sadness or heartbreak. Nothing. The answer was void. "So, yes. I'm sure."
Ethan exhaled a breath and started the truck up. I wondered what he was thinking. After he hopped in and wept, and I sat there trying to control myself, there was silence for a good ten minutes before we started going. Besides murder, really, what goes on through his head? What does he think about when he isn't killing? What has he been thinking about this entire "trip" with me?
Why do I care?
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