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@apponequet-edge-blog
Winter Wings
Winter Wings by Sam Bury
Wind whipped his face as he ran. His skin was red, raw, and beginning to show signs of frost bite. He didn’t care; he just needed to escape, to soar, to be free. They had kept him cooped up for too long and done too many tests. For all he knew he may never fly again. The edge of the cliff came sooner than he thought, but he jumped and crossed his fingers. This is it, he thought.
*********
*Three days earlier*
Ben walked into his house, tracking snow on the carpets. He hated winter, with its bitter cold nights and slippery icy messes. It brought back painful memories he tried to keep buried within him. The only thing he did like was the short day-light hours. It gave him more time to fly in darkness; without flight there was no reason to live. But no one could know his secret; he would be hunted for science experiments. He was never going back into a lab, EVER. He had been born in a laboratory specializing in experimentation on embryos, his “mother” had found him in the waste pile, ready to be cremated. She took one look at him and knew he was worth saving. However, he was government property, and stealing him had gotten her killed when Ben was thirteen; two short years after they figured out he had wings, not shoulder blades protruding from his back. The men that came thought he had died too, leaving him in a crumpled, bloody mess on the floor. He survived though, and remained hidden for sixteen years. Some days he wished he was normal, but then he thought of the emptiness he felt when he couldn’t fly for whatever reason, and realized that flying was who he was.
Ben lived in an upscale apartment in Boston. He had worked relentlessly for years building up his name in an engineering company until he was good enough to open his own business. He was now a well-known engineer making hundreds of thousands of dollars every year. He loved the money, but the stress that accompanied it drove him near crazy. That’s why he began flying again. After night fall that evening, he went to his balcony over-looking the city. Moments after stepping out onto the crunchy-snow covered landing, he was flying. Some nights he flew over Fenway or BostonHarbor, but tonight he just needed the release so he didn’t care where he went. He began soaring upward when he was struck in the back of the head. He started falling when suddenly he hit something cold and metal, and then everything went black.
Ben woke up in a cell, tied to a bed with tubes in his head and arms. His head was sore, and he felt nauseas. He started to scream, when a woman walked into the room. She was wearing a long white lab coat with a company logo printed across the breast pocket. Ben was still disoriented so her face appeared blurry, but he tried focusing to make out his kidnappers face.
“Hello Benjamin, it’s been too long”, she said in a hushed tone. Something about the voice was familiar, almost soothing.
“Can you hear me Benny?” She began rubbing his arm.
Ben almost had a heart attack. His machines began beeping and surging with power. Sixteen years, he had gone sixteen long years thinking she was dead. Now here she was standing next to him, touching his arm. His vision became clear, but he didn’t need it to, he could recognize his mother’s voice anywhere.
Clarity
Clarity by Sam Bury
For most people, September was a month of change. Children of all ages went back to school; adults got a small piece of their lives back that had been occupied by summer fun. Benjamin didn’t feel that way. To him this time of the year just brought remorse with it. Often, it would even get the best of him and his anger. Simple trips to the grocery store would end in fights that he that he egged-on. He usually regretted it later, but it wasn’t his fault really; it was hers.
Two years: that’s how long Ben wasted his life being with her. Claire was the love of his life, until she just up and left one day. There was no note, no call, no explanation. He walked into their third-floor apartment to find everything gone. She didn’t even leave all of his things; some of his favorite clothes had been among the mess in the bed room. Evidently she just took everything she wanted regardless of who the items belonged to. Now here he was: stuck in school bus traffic, thinking of her.
Rocks flew. The car whipped around a corner, skidding as it went. He didn’t want to think of her anymore.
“Dammit!” he shouted.
The speedometer read 110, but it quickly escalated. His car would top out eventually, and if not, he would die throwing it around one of these God-forsaken corners leading back to his childhood.
**********
Why the hell had he come here? He hated this town. They had met here; started their life together. The plan had been for both of them to get off their feet and move to a city. He remembered her saying, “Just a few years, no later than ninety-three. I want to be out of this town in time for my twenty first birthday!”
His insides began churning, he felt like every time he thought of her he puked. This somehow was different. He felt like this the whole drive here. Some people believe in a sub-conscious, and right now so did Ben. The ride had consisted of angry news reporters talking about politics and murder, and him feeling as though he was having a conversation; with himself. Ben’s mind was literally telling him to turn around, get away from this town. But he couldn’t. His sub-conscious mind had lost, and now here he was, in the little town of Forrestall. To anyone else, it was beautiful. Picturesque beauty with little farm stands and Halloween decorations. He saw the auto parts store he needed and hurried along inside before one of the children selling cookies noticed him. Unfortunately his car was the only sanity he had. The poor car was falling apart His sixty-seven Chevy Camarro had seen better days. The metallic blue paint was sunburned in some spots, and peeling in others. Right now its maintenance issue was a water pump. He hadn’t had the time to replace it, and now the problem might be a lot worse.
The store smelled of waxed floors and grease, but there was no one to be found. He walked over to the counter and rang the worn out brass bell. No one came for what could have been several minutes, and when the bald, burly man did grace Ben with his presence, he ignored him.
“Yeah Charlie get that shipment out in the next hour or two, they said rush but eh they’ll live.”
Ben watched, waiting for the fat man, labeled as Paul by a cheap name tag, to acknowledge him. Trying to seem like he knew what he was doing, he looked at different wrenches and oil filters. When Paul still didn’t approach him, Ben took it upon himself and walked over to him.
“Excuse me I was won-“
“Listen kid I got a business to run and I ain’t got time for you and your attitude so get lost,” he turned and walked away.
Ben was confused, and angry, what the hell had he done, or said wrong? He was being unusually polite despite his awful circumstances and this asshole wouldn’t give him the time of day. Honestly he just needed a stupid water pump. This was the only parts stores in three counties. Awesome, he thought.
He would just have to go out in the morning on a two hour trip to get the pump fixed. Just what I was hoping for: another long journey to break something else in my car. He turned and walked out of the store, narrowly avoiding those girls again.
Ben decided to check into one of the town’s only motels and crash there for the night. He showered, watched some crappy TV program, and fell fast asleep.
Run. Duck. Faster.. They’re coming.
Ben woke up in a pool of sweat, to a pounding on his door.
“This is the police! We have the room building surrounded! Open the door and come out with your hands raised!” a policeman shouted, breaking the cool morning air.
What the hell? Ben was utterly confused but he did as he was told.
When he opened the door he was attacked by three police officers, all of which had looks of terror plastered on their face.
“What the hell did I do?” Ben was shouted at them.
“You are wanted for questioning in the murder of Paul Simmons.” One of the shorter police officer’s answered.
“Who the hell is Paul Simmons?”
“We will talk when we get to the station” the cop replied.
*****************
After hours of questioning, Ben figured out that Paul Simmons was the fat man from the parts store the day before. Evidently his face had been on video, and since he was the only person that went into the parts store all day, his prints were the only uncommon ones. He tried explaining to no avail that he went in for a water pump and was there no more than five minutes, but the police kept questioning. They showed him image after image of this man sprawled across the floor with a wrench sticking out of his head. From what he was told his prints were all over the wrench and counter, but the video didn’t show him touching any wrenches. He knew he had while waiting patiently for the man, but the cameras didn’t cover that angle. Finally they gave him lie detector test. After being there for over thirty-six hours, Ben was released.
He returned to the motel and tried sleeping, since while at the station he wasn’t allowed to be alone much less sleep. He tossed and turned and had vivid dreams of swinging a wrench into Paul Simmons’ head. Once again he woke up in his sweat, but this time there was no police. He was shaking and felt nauseas. That dream felt so real. Damn cops gave me nightmares from all of those crime scene photos.
He went to the bathroom to take a shower. When he went to throw his shirt off he noticed something red protruding from the trash. Awesome, the maids left gross trash in here. Ben went to move it in order for them to see it when he noticed what the item was, his white t-shirt from the other day. Only now, it was covered in blood.
“What the frig?!” he yelled
He looked in the mirror and noticed his mouth was moving, uncontrollably. There was no noise coming out but then his hands started moving without his control.
“What’s happening to me!”
Hi Ben, the voice came from in his head, My name is Canton, and I am going to kill you.
“I’m friggin psychotic! What the hell is in my head!” He began clawing at his head, scratching his face and neck.
Well Ben, you see there can only be one of us. And I told you not to come here, but you didn’t listen. So instead of waiting until you finish my bidding, I’m going to kill you.
Ben’s hand picked up a razor and aimed towards his wrist. “No stop it!” he yelled at himself in the mirror. “Where did you come from??”
You made me Ben, don’t you remember? You came home two years ago and found them. They were in your bed Ben, how could you forget? And you couldn’t handle it on your own, so you made me. And now, I kill the people that make us mad. But see you only give me free reign when you are sleeping. I want more though Ben, I want it all.
Ben’s mind suddenly was flooded with memories. He did it. He killed Claire. He killed the man she was with, a poor woman who cut him off one day, and Paul. More memories kept coming, but they were pieces. Ben knew though. He was a monster, or he was at least housing one. All this time he was traveling places to escape his feelings, only to find out he was a traveling serial killer. He didn’t know how to rid himself of it.
Oh don’t even try Ben, I know what you’re thinking. I am apart of your mind. And now, before you die, we have one more stop to make.
Ben’s hand reached into his back pocket. He pulled out a three inch blade and walked towards the door.
I told you not to come back here, now they have to doe too.
For a moment Ben was confused, who had to die? But then he realized he could hear Canton’s thoughts too. He threw himself on the floor and screamed, “I WILL NOT KILL MY FAMILY!”
Oh yes, yes you will.
The Inhibitor
The Inhibitor by Kayla Andrade
Too often, we have no control over all the chaos that clouds over our lives. I should know. We plan to do one thing, but it always ends up to be the complete opposite. People call it just "having a bad day", but I call it "life". It's typical, and I should be used to it by now, but it somehow always manages to catch me off guard. Whatever. I'll just ignore it; maybe it'll go away.
I doubt it.
This is my story, and it's nothing special. I’m just the stereotypical dirt-poor, white trash people like to scoff at. To them, I am nothing. Honestly, I'd rather be nothing than one of them. People give you hell, they treat you like dogs, they think they can step all over you and push you around. Or maybe that's just how my parents are. I used to call home a dingy trailer on the west side of the middle of nowhere- a small town on the outskirts of Atlanta. My family, if you could even call them that, was made of three people; my heroine addict mother, my alcoholic, abusive father, and my drug-dealer brother. Then there was me, the only one who hasn't run-in with the law for illegal drugs, or investigated by the FBI, or nearly shot dead by a rival gang, etc.. I was the only one gifted with common sense or decency. It doesn't make me any less of a loser, but that's okay. At least I'm not them. I spent eighteen goddamn years in that dungeon of a trailer home. As soon as I hit eighteen, when I could run out without those possessive parents calling the cops for a runaway teen, I ditched that place. I wasn’t their kid, I was there property. So I took my property, my dog, and I left. I haven't gone back since. I don't need them, and they constantly said how they didn't need me. I'm glad I left. A day longer in that hell-hole and I would've grabbed my dear pa's antique revolver; the nice one that he'd drunkenly feed my brother and I crap about how Al Capone himself had owned at one point, put it to my skull, and pull the trigger. Home sweet home. My name is Jensen Gray, and I'm someone you'd never want to meet. Pass me on the streets, and you'd turn the other way. You'd see me with my dog and immediately think, That boy is should be in the back of a police cruiser. Despite the prejudice, I'm not dangerous. I'm not going to pick a fight, or get drunk and harass you. I'm really just trying to live my life with as little human interaction as possible. I can fend for myself, and I don’t need anybody taking care of me. That’s how I've lived since I was a kid, so it’s nothing new. ---- A long stretch of highway was laid out before us. The gray, cracked pavement looked like it hadn't been maintained in a long time. It was nice. No traffic, no people; just my dog, Abas, and I. It was quiet, save for the roaring of my truck’s engine and the soft sounding cadence of a random rock station in the background. I look like a mess. I’m tired, but I have a lot ahead of me. A couple of coffees later, and I’ll be fine. My hat overshadows my grungy face and covers my curly brown hair. I really need a shower. There are bags under my eyes, and the color has gone from blue to grey. I need a shave, too; my face is stubbly. As soon as I can get a motel room, I’ll clean up. The sky was that mix between lilac and a misty blue, and clouds looked as if they were painted across the horizon. Shades of pink and orange busted out from the horizon where the last of the sun shown. The dull pine trees past by us fast and yellow, dead grass lined both sides of the road. The last bit of snow that the previous snow storm brought was just starting to disappear, revealing the plants and grass it had murdered underneath the surface. People think it’s dreary how the winter kills off plant life, but that’s how nature is; it creates, and it destroys. Create. Destroy. Repeat. Driving as much as I do would irritate most people, but I kind of find it soothing. It’s therapeutic. You go about from city to city, see the fast-passing nature, you hear the hum of the engine. Well, in my case, more like a violent clunking. This truck’s about to kick the bucket, but that’ll tie in more later. I looked towards the passenger seat, seeing my dopey dog with its head thrust out the window and his tongue hanging back a mile long. I smirk. “Look, Abas, it’s your favorite city.” I pat his back to get his attention, and he just gives me that stupid look that says You’re a psychopath, stop talking to your dog. The truck makes a loud thunk noise. Again. “It’s Savannah. You remember Savannah, bud?” I say, not expecting anything intelligent back. He ignores me and continues his very important task of letting a trail of drool follow us for miles. Well, I remember. Savannah, Georgia might be my dog’s favorite, but I’m only here on obligations. I hate this place. I'm meeting up with my old friend, a mechanic. A guy like me only has so much money, and I am not getting stranded in some random state in the middle of the country. So now I have to go to Charlotte to meet up with Mickey. He's cheap, he's fast, and he's efficient. The faster I can get out of the south-east coast, the better. I'll get the truck fixed up, get my dog another bag of food, then be on my way to God-knows-where. I'll get another quick job somewhere, maybe a farm, get some money, and continue my life. I'll move out west, far away from Atlanta, and build my own house out near the Rockies where no one can bother me and I can live off the land. Somewhere desolate and bleak, just how I like it. That was the plan. --- After getting lost twice and a stop at a gas station, Abas and I reached our destination. Mickey's station was a beat-up, run-down garage on the outskirts of the city. The air smelt like gas and pollution, and the ground was tainted with oil stains and terribly cracked. It was a kind of day where the clouds made the sky look white and everything else had a gray hue. The early morning was still cool and crisp. A boney man in ripped, stained jeans and a red plaid shirt lifted the door to the garage and swung his arms open. Abas barked, and his tail wagged uncontrollably. "Jensen Gray, how are ya, buddy?" he came up to me as I got out of my dying truck. "Glad to see yer alive! I got your call, and I couldn‘t wait to see ya!" "Been awhile, hasn't it, Mick?" I smile enthusiastically. He pats me on the shoulder and I shake his other hand. He laughs and bends down, outstretching his grease-ridden hands to pet Abas on the head. He barks happily. "See you still got the pit bull. I got my lil' girl a dog a while ago myself. Ah, but enough of that. What brings ya here? Big Red over there givin' you trouble?" he gestures to my truck. "It's more useful as a doghouse than a truck.” I say, “I don’t know what’s wrong, but I’ve gotta get on the road and I can’t afford anywhere else.” “I gotcha, pal.” he limps over to my truck and opens the hood, “Shouldn’t be too much. The usual rate, I reckon.” “That shouldn’t be too bad on my wallet…” I ponder on how far I can go with the amount I have now, taking into account food and gas. Mickey wobbles back over to his garage and gets his tool box. It’s rusted and falling apart, but he’s always had it. I remember when he told me that it was his father’s. The only thing my father ever gave me was head-aches and anxiety. Mickey comes back to my truck and gets to work. He used to say how he liked working on my truck because he knew it inside and out. He said, I could take it all apart and put it together again in a day. I know he could, but that doesn’t mean I’ll let him. “Ah, hell! I forgot! Jensen, you ‘member yer brother?” he yells out. He’s already started on the truck; working his mechanic magic. I lean against the side idly and Abas is sitting in the passenger seat again. Yes, I remember my brother. Just because I haven’t been home in seven years doesn’t mean I forgot about the person I hate most on the planet. That’s what I’d like to say, but Mickey probably doesn’t want to hear that. He’s been a friend to my family ever since we were kids. He’s gotten me out of a lot of bad situations due to my brother’s lack of intelligence before, and I could already tell that moron probably managed to drag me into something again just by the way Mickey brought him up. I would think that not seeing him for this long would get him out of my life for good by now, but I guess I’m doomed to always bailing him out every time he gets busted with drugs, drunk driving, getting into fights, flipping off a cop; take your pick. He’s done it all. “What ‘bout him?” I say, monotonous. “I think he may have gotten into some trouble,” he picks up a wrench from his kit and stops to look at me, “He went n’ got into a bar fight the other night n’ got taken away.” “And this is news, how?” I scoff. I’m not surprised at all. This is typical. This is a classic ‘Dustin Gray’ situation. I was expecting something more along the lines of a potential homicide. I wouldn’t be surprised at that, either. “Well,” he continued, “He’s gon’ need someone to pick ‘em up at the station. He asked me for the bail money, but I can’t get ‘em ‘cuz I’m tied up here.” “Mick, you’re not honestly asking me to go get my brother out of jail, are you?” I almost laugh. I start to wonder who put him up to this. Maybe it was Dustin, or possibly my father. “It’s been seven years, Jensen. Dontcha miss your older brother even a lil’ bit?” he asks me. “Mickey, we’re talking about the kid who would come home high every day and beat me up. The same guy who’d try to frame me so he wouldn’t have to ride in a police cruiser. The guy who stole my identity and bought a shipment of crack.” I rant, “So no, I don’t miss him the slightest bit.” Mickey finishes up my truck and closes the hood. Abas is fast asleep, and I’m anxious to get out of here and on the road so Mickey doesn’t persist on this. Mick grabs the rag in his pocket and cleans off his hands. “He needs his brother, Jensen.” he says, “Tell ya what, if you go get ‘em, I’ll let ya off the hook with paying for this.” I groan. This sucks. I need all the money I can save, but I really don’t want to have to see Dustin. I try to mull over the pro’s and con’s of this. Unfortunately, money is more important at the moment than maintaining a grudge. “God damn it, Mick.” I curse, “Why you keep looking out for that kid; I’ll never know.” Mickey gives his classic goofy smile and pats my shoulder, “It means ‘lot, Jensen.” “Yeah, yeah.” I mumble, “I’m only doing it because you asked. After this, I’m not helping him out again.” I thank him for his work, and for always helping me out. Abas says his good-byes through barks, and I get back in my truck. I turn the key and it comes to life, but this time it sounds much less rickety. I roll down the window to talk to Mickey one last time. “If you never hear from me again, you’ll know why.” I say, sarcastically. “Remember, Jensen, family first!” he laughs, “You’re all he’s got. He’ll be happy to see ya.” “I doubt that.” I say. I wave and pull out of the parking lot. I don’t plan on coming back to Georgia after this, so Dustin better not think I’m here to take care of him again. I’m done with those days. Mickey always wanted Dustin and I to get along, but there’s no way that’s happening. I’m going to go get him, drop him off wherever, and go back to sticking to the plan. I want to be on my way to Colorado by nightfall. Family can’t come first in my life, because I don’t have a family that would be worth it. --- “Your name?” a burly cop asks me from behind the desk of the police station. His mustache falls over his top lip. He looks and sounds more tired than I do. A plaque behind him says Dedicated and proud. Eager to help the community. GAPD. The fluorescent lighting of the station is giving me a headache, and the whole place is grey and dismal. “Jensen Gray.” The hollers of rowdy inmates sound from the hallway in front of me. Thankfully, I don’t hear my brother. The officer searches through papers sprawled across the desk and picks one out of the bunch. I keep my hands in my pockets, one protecting the wad of cash Mickey gave me so I could pay bail. “I assume you’re here for Dustin, then?” he takes a sip of his coffee. It’s kind of funny how my brother and the Savannah Police Department are on a first name basis. “Unfortunately.” I check my watch. I just want to get this over with. “It’s gonna be five-hundred dollars.” he says. The cop gestures to another officer, and the other guy unlocks the bars to get into the hallway where the invalids were being kept and disappears. I feel sick. I hand the officer the money Mickey gave me and he counts it. I’m listening to the hallway, and I hear another door unlock. A key chain is rattling and echoing down that mysterious hallway. There are two sets of footsteps, both going very slow. I’m shaking a bit, but mostly because of rage. Every time I see his stupid face, I want to punch it. I’ve got to remember, I’m only doing this because Mickey asked. It’ll be worth it. I’ll get farther west with the money I saved. Closer Colorado, closer to building my own house and making my own farm, closer to being far away from Georgia; away from Dustin. The other officer from before pushed Dustin out of the hallway, and Dustin turned to face him. He hasn’t seen me yet. “Ay, be gentle.” He’s smiling. “Stop showing up here, Dustin. I don’t care who you beat up, and for whatever reason, stop getting yourself in here.” “You know you love seein’ my face, Paul.” Dustin was still giving a toothy, stupid grin to the officer. I was completely unamused. My face was slowly turning into a grimace. I tapped my foot impatiently. He still had a shaved head and dirty skin. He probably hasn’t showered since the last time I saw him. His tattoos of various words, vulgar pictures, and symbols were discolored and had turned a bluish-black; just like a bruise. He’s wearing a grubby green colored T-shirt, his steel-toe black boots, and jeans that are two sizes too big. He finally turns and sees me. His stupid smile turns into a shocked stupor. “Son of a bitch.” He makes a reunion so tear-jerking. This hillbilly has such an eloquent way with words. I, however, stay silent. Instead, I let my emotionless expression talk for me. “Jensen.” he states. Wow, he actually remembers my name. “What are the hell are you doin’ here?” his smile returns. Mickey probably planned this stupid reunion all along. I stay quiet. Maybe if I ignore it, it’ll go away. “Come on, let’s get out of here and chat.” he says enthusiastically leading the way out of the station. Nice to see you again, too. --- Dustin’s already at my truck by the time I follow him out of the station. He’s trying to communicate with Abas through the window, but he’s just growling and barking and snarling. Good dog. Dustin turns around to see me, “What’re you doin’ in Georgia, Jensen? Thought you disowned us?” “You’re welcome.” I open the driver’s side door, get in and slam it shut. I’m so pissed off. Dustin opens the passenger side door, and I have to hold onto Abas’s collar to try and keep him from tackling Dustin. I should’ve just let him. “Whoa, easy boy.” Dustin laughs. This is the part where I would’ve punched the stupid out of him, if I could get away with it. He gets comfortable in the seat and takes out a cigarette. “Did the ice melt off your heart? Why’d you get me out?” he talks out of the side of his mouth as he cups a hand around his cigarette and lights it, the putrid smell permeating the still air of my truck. The orange light coming from the burning stick is twice as bright in the dark December night. “Just tell me what hell-hole your staying in these days so I can get rid of you.” I snap back. I’d kill to be anywhere but here. I start up the truck and put it in drive. “Come on, who put you up to it?” he keeps persisting. He’s like the ringing in your ears that you can’t get to go away. He’s the guy who keeps tailgating you on the highway. He’s the scum of the earth, and I just want him to shut up already. “Mickey. Now either give me an address, or get out and walk. I agreed to bail you out, not to chauffeur you around.” My patience is wearing thin. I pull out of the station and turn down the street. He’s probably still living with our parents, so I’ll just kick him out at the trailer park. “Good ol’ Mickey. He’s always takin’ care of me.” he blows a puff of smoke, and takes another drag of his cigarette. I’m ready to repeatedly slam my head against the steering wheel and end it right here and now. My debt to Mickey has been paid, I’m not sitting around and playing games with this ass; I’m getting back on track and going to Colorado. “He always was teachin’ us about family bein’ first.” Dustin smirked, “Guess you’re stuck with me.” --- It’s a short drive to the trailer park, but it seems to be an eternity by the time we finally got there. He wouldn’t shut up about the people he’s fought, all the girls he’s gotten with, or the stupid things he’s done since my absence. He talked about dad and how he was about to kick the bucket, and mom with her ongoing drug experimentation. I didn’t want to hear any of it, but I didn’t really have a choice. I tried to tune it out by thinking about how great my little cabin is going to look. I’m going to have it right by a river. I stop the truck right outside the park‘s entrance, feeling relieved. “Get out.” I demand. “Leave. I’m done. I did what Mickey asked, and now I’m leaving.” Dustin is halfway done with his third cigarette. He’s resting his head on his hand, and he’s just looking at me with such a calm expression. I really hate this guy. “Come on, lil’ bro.” he sighed. “Why dontcha come see your family for once?” he gave me that stupid smile. I don’t know why he could have the audacity to ask me to go back in there. I wouldn’t enter this place even if Mickey asked me to. “No,” I open the door, I need some air, “I’m not seeing them. And this is the last I’ll see of you. I’m leaving today, and I don’t plan on ever coming back to Georgia.” I let Abas out of the truck on his leash. He keeps pulling on it, wanting to run around, but I’m just stretching my legs before the trip. “Never ever?” Dustin asks with insincere lament, still inside the truck. Mickey did a wonderful job; the engine sounds brand-new. “Good-bye, Dustin.” I say, turning around to face him for the last time. Except, I wasn’t facing him. Not directly. I was face-to-face with the bad end of a 9mm pistol. I didn’t focus on his face, but I could tell that stupid grin was planted across it again. “G’bye, Jensen.” he mimicked me. Abas was barking rabidly and Dustin, and I was having a staring contest with the barrel of a gun. I knew I shouldn’t have come back to Georgia. Dustin readied his finger on the trigger. “Sorry, bro. I need yer truck. And yer cash.” He held up the bag where I kept my money. “I’m gettin’ out of Georgia and joining another gang up North.” In that moment, I knew my little cabin on the side of the Rockies wouldn’t get built. I knew that I wasn’t going to get away from Georgia. I’d be stuck here. Eternally. Born, raised, and murdered here. At least one of us would live out our dreams. That was the day I died. I was shot dead by my loser brother outside of the trailer park I detested in the state I hated most of all. I spent seven years avoiding the thing that ended up killed me; my family. I was left in a pool of my own blood on the gravel of a makeshift parking lot. My truck, along with the rest of my things, were stolen and I was dead. I spent so much time planning my future, even more time working small jobs to make it happen, and I got nothing in return. Well, that’s not entirely true. I did get a bullet in my brain. I saved up enough to finally about to build that cabin on the mountains like I wanted to. My story just goes to show, we have no control over our future. Nothing will ever go as planned. No matter how carefully you plot, no matter how much money you save, and no matter how much you dream, nothing will ever be as good as you can imagine it.
The Blue Hills by Kayla Andrade