The clock on the dash reads 2:23 and the radio is turned up loud, playing some weird ass pop song. It was 1:43 when I left that hellhole and I'm thankful that I didn't have to walk.
I check the rearview mirror periodically to make sure you haven't caught up yet. It's nearly impossible, seeing that I'm hitting 70 and you don't have a car, but the knot in my stomach has me worried.
Of course, I could just be bleeding.
The dirt road finally ended, black pavement greeting me. I'm unsure which way to go.
Eenie Meanie, Miney Moe. Catch a tiger by his toe. If he hollers let him go. My mamma said to pick the very best one and I don't give a shit.
Right it is.
The road is deserted, which is another blessing. I have no clue on how to drive.
I'm 17 and I haven't ridden in a car in 4 years.
I pull on my seatbelt, gasping at the pain of my wrists and shoulder. Everything hurts, but I figure with all I've been through, it'd be pretty stupid to die from a car accident.
The trees around me start to thin. Still, it's 5:52 before I see another car.
I'm just about to pull over to sleep when I see a community of trailers up ahead. I park in front of them and stumble to the first one I see.
The door begins to blur and suddenly there's two of them. My head lurches forward and I pull back, too much. Now I'm tipping backwards and I grab onto a wooden railing to support myself. My entire body feels like it's shutting down.
Focus, Eli.
The door opens and a man with a beard jumps back when he sees me.
"What the hell happened to ya, kid?" His accent makes it nearly impossible to decipher his words. Either that, or my brain is tricking me.
I manage to grin. "Can I use your shower?"
He looks me up and down. At least, I think that's what he's doing. My eyes have begun to close and I can't force them back open. I'm blind! Wait, no, I can see.
"Why don't ya come inside, kid?" His voice sounds like it's coming from inside a jail cell. I lurch past him and into his trailer. I survey around the room but the details begin to blur. All I can see is a couch.
"Can I sit here?" I ask, waving vaguely at the sofa.
"Sure, kid, whatever ya-" he starts but I'm already there, spread out against the cushions. Sweat drips off my body, like the mere act of laying done required an abundance of energy, something I don't currently have right now. Maybe I can take a loan out of the bank for more.
I giggle at the thought. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the man frown.
"Molly!" He calls, and a dog comes trotting out. The last thing I feel is the dog's tongue against my hand and suddenly I've faded away.
@_@
I wake up gradually. The first time I wake up, there's a man with a beard- you don't have a beard, oh the man from the trailer, who's molly?- and he's talking on the phone.
"— listen, I don't know his name, I already told ya that! He came here early this mornin' asking to use my shower, then crashed on my sofa! I don't know what more ya want... he's asleep, how'm'I supposed to ask him that?!... okay well, he's bleeding everywhere and sweatin' all over...."
My eyes slip shut and refuse to open.
The next time it's much darker. The bearded man is sleeping on the floor. I feel a heavy warmth over my legs and a pair of dark eyes peer at me through the night. It's the dog, Lottie or Molly, something like that.
I reach down to pet it but barely get to it's paw before I'm exhausted. I relax back into the couch and my eyes are closed before I get there.
When I wake up for good, there's a sliver of light cutting into my eyes. I blink it away and groan, rolling off the couch and hitting the floor with a thud. I wince, unable to stop the noise from coming out. Jesus fucking Christ, I hurt.
Suddenly, hands are wrapped around my biceps, easing me into a standing position. As soon as I'm up, I elbow the culprit hard into the throat.
I spin around, the chains around my ankles rattling in protest. It's the bearded man and he's wheezing, his hands clasped around his throat while he bends over. Oops.
"Sorry." I say. You shouldn't have been behind me.
He gasps and gestures weakly. "No... problem, kid."
I give him a few moments to collect himself. He straightens after about 20 seconds. He's taller than me but not by much, maybe 5'8 or 5'9. His beard is impressive; ginger and curling down over his protruding stomach. His accent seems to be from up north, maybe Boston or New York, but it's faded considerably. He has no hair, which isn't surprising. Red headed guys tend to bald fairly quickly.
"You gotta name?" He asks. His voice is raspy still, and I feel a slight pang of remorse.
"Yeah." I feel bad for not trusting him, but my aching body reminds me what nice looking people are capable of.
He waits for me to continue, looking uncomfortable at my silence. "Alright you don't have to tell me," he says, "I'm Richie. Richie Blackburn. Uh, do you have anyone I can contact or...."
"No." The past 24 hours must be catching up to me because I feel the prick of tears welling up behind my eyes. I focus my gaze on the ground instead. I'm repulsed by the thought of breaking down in front of this stranger. "No, I— No, I don't."
"Ok...." Richie trails off. "Why don't we cut those chains off of you and you can take a shower while I make some breakfast?" He's talking to me like one would a toddler. I pity him for underestimating me. It's not very smart.
"That'd be great." I look around. The front door opens up into the living room and kitchen with a small hallway off to the left. The kitchen has the bare necessities— he doesn't even have a dishwasher. I'm trying not to judge; I've lived in worse, yet for some reason, I feel like this guy should have better.
Richie's rummaging through the kitchen, too loud, making me uneasy. I don't like loud noises.
He comes back with a pair of scissors and I have to fight to keep my laughter down. Seriously?
I guess my amusement showed on my face, because now he looks self conscious. "Look, this is all I got, alright?"
"Worth a shot." I murmur and sit back down on the couch, propping my feet up on a worn down coffee table. It's concave in the middle from years of use.
He begins to saw at the middle chain in between. A shower of rust flakes spray over my thighs and suddenly I'm hyper aware that my shorts smell like piss. It's kinda hard to take a piss when you're tied up at the moment. Well, every moment.
I'm not surprised when the chain doesn't give in.
After a few minutes, Richie sighs. He seems shaken up by my presence.
"Mr. Blackburn, I'm sorry to bother you."
"Don't be. I'm just... it's quite a lot to take in." Richie bites his lip, as if unsure whether to continue. "I don't know anything about you. You won't tell me your name. You're bleeding everywhere and look horrible. I don't know how to help you." His brow furrows. "I can ask a buddy if he has any bolt cutters but I'd have to leave you alone. Is that okay?"
I nod, surprised he would trust me. "I'll be fine, I'll just lock the doors." I reach out and grab his wrist. I hate the contact but I need to make sure he understands me. "Don't tell anyone I'm here. I don't want... the person who did this to find me."
I was afraid that he'd ask me for the identity but, thankfully, he seemed to respect my privacy. I can tell he so desperately wants to.
"Do you have any water?"
My question startles him. "Yeah, yeah, of course. There's some bottles in the fridge." He hesitates before placing a hand upon my head. I flinch hard and he retracts his hand quickly. "I- I'm—"
"Please don't touch me." I don't look at him. My tone is soft but he still winces.
"I'm sorry." Richie says. He leaves, borderline frantic. As soon as the door shuts I lock it, then go to the fridge.
I swipe a water bottle. My fingers are shaking and I can't get a firm grip around the top. Why can't you just fucking work? I try again and the water slips from my grasp.
"Why won't you fucking open?!" I scream, kicking the bottle. It skirts harmlessly across the tiles. I'm breathing angrily. It's becoming harder and harder to suck in air. I'm pretty sure my ribs are broken.
Suddenly, I feel disgusting. My hands are filthy, the skin on my palms scraped raw from my fall. My nails are short- you cut them constantly, along with my hair- but there's mud and blood around them. 3 fingers on my left hand don't even have nails; you pulled them off after I bit your tongue. I have severe cuts all down my arms, some disappear up into my sleeves. The parts that don't have any have scars. There isn't an inch of my skin that hasn't been marked by you, sans my face. Even my ears have been sliced.
I hobble into the bathroom and stare into the mirror. My face is sweaty, making streaks in the dirt. My eyes— one blue, the other 7/8's brown- are bloodshot with dark bags under them. Everywhere else seems to be gray and dirty. My hair, once a white blonde, is now nearly black with grime and soot. It's tangled, parts hanging into my eyes. The sides are shaved, curtesy to you, but you nicked me so many times it's hard to feel gracious towards you.
I look terrible and empty and raw. My emotions in my eyes, so haunted and cautious and cold, make me want to hide them.
I look away quickly, and begin stripping off my nasty shirt and shorts. I kick them aside— as best I could with chains— and turn on the shower. I watch the mirror from a distance, the steam slowly creeping over the surface.
I test the water with my hand, yanking it back as it burns my skin. I fix it and climb in cautiously. I stumble but finally I'm in. I'm taking a shower for the first time in years.
It feels odd. The water is soft and yet I can't stop flinching as it hits me. The chains clatter against the tub. I grab the shampoo and work it through my hair. My fingers are cramped up in an awkward position and keep getting caught in the knots. I give up after a few minutes. Though I'm gentle, when I scrub my body I open up most of the wounds on my body.
Someone knocks at the door. "Hey, kid, you good in there?"
"Yeah." I call. I turn off the water, the bath water dark from my grime.
I wrap the towel around my waist and crack the door open. "Uh, Mr. Blackburn?"
He answers back from what sounds like the living room. "Yeah?"
"Do you have any clothes I can borrow?" I hate how timid my voice sounds, but I'm uncomfortable asking for things.
"Of course." I watch him go into a door to the left of the bathroom and come out with a wad of cloth.
"I'm a lot bigger than you, so I'm not sure if the pants'll fit but...." He hands them to me, careful not to brush any skin.
I nod and close the door. He gave me a paint-splattered Jimi Hendrix Experience t shirt and worn denim jeans, soft to the touch. Millennials with their fabric softeners.
The shirt hangs off of my bony frame and the pants sag considerably. I have to hold them up as I walk, which makes it hard not to trip.
Richie's standing by the window, talking on the floor. "He won't tell me anything, and honestly, I don't want to pry. The kid's obviously been through some rough shit and I ain't gonna forced him to live through—"
"And I appreciate it." I interrupt, dragging myself to the couch. The chains scrape against the floor. My breath has become labored and my head's starting to spin.
"I'll call you back." He says to the person on the phone. "Hey kid. I found some bolt cutters."
"Are you going to tell me who you were talking to or am I gonna have to assume the worst?" My words come out slurred, and I scowl.
"You alright?" Richie's voice sounds distant. I try to take a deep breath but I can't seem to get enough air. I feel like I'm being choked. Again.
"Definitely broke some ribs." I groan, doubling over. I feel bile rise up my throat and grunt. I do not feel good.
"I'm gonna get these off of you, alright?" At least, I think that's what he said. My ears are ringing.
There's a grunt and then a snap. Another grunt. Another snap. The chain snaps and I'm left free. I'm thankful you had traded the shackles out for plain chains in the last days before my escape. I'm seeing double but I make out dark rings fastened around my bony ankles. Sexy. I love sex marks.
I close my eyes. There's too much light.
"I think..." Shit, my head hurts. "I think I'm gonna lie down."
"Kid, you don't look too hot." He sounds angry. No, worried. That's the word. They're so similar.
"You... you callin' me ugly?" I lean my head back. Beads of sweat run down my forehead and into my eyes. I'm so tired.
Richie's voice fades in and out as I get closer and closer to peace. "... gotta... hospital... I'm gonna pick you up, alright, I have to pick you..."
I feel myself being carried. To bed, maybe? Did I fall asleep watching a movie again?
"Dad?" I mumble but my father doesn't hear me. "Dad, I'm sorry. I can't help what I- what I am."
"It's okay." My dad's voice sounds funny. "It's gonna be okay."
It's a lie. That's the only thing I can understand. It's a lie.
Holy mother of God I wrote WAY TOO MUCH. 2506 words. Get on my level, plebs.
Hehe just kidding.
Or am I?