Wait, I thought, chill out for a bit. I slammed my foot down on the brakes as hard as I could and came to a violent halt. Clouds of dust swirled in the faint glow of my headlights. 'So happy,' I whispered to the bare passenger seat. I opened the door – icy wind punched me in the face –, got out, and wandered toward a bushy area a few feet from the road. I knew I was going to vomit . . . I just did.
The siren grew softer and softer until it was completely gone.
('I know what you did.')
Her laughter still echoed in my ears, but I tried not to notice. My stomach contracted.
Why, no, I sure was not happy as I left my comfy oven behind and staggered to my knees in the middle of nowhere; not jumpin-for-joy as half-digested lasagna shot up my throat, pooling in my mouth until I choked – slimy chunks spewed all over my jeans and dripped down my chin –; not overly ecstatic as a monstrous thunderstorm broke out abruptly, without warning. Nosiree, pal. Not at all.
When, at last, I had nothing left in me, I went back to my truck, scampering through a thick curtain of rain illuminated by my truck's headlights, and sank, completely and utterly drained, into the driver's seat. The sky grumbled. A percussion of rain sounded on my truck's rooftop. I panted, allowed the heater's toasty air to carry me into a deep trance. Not for long, though – of course not. A soury, vomit stench invaded my nostrils, waking me from the welcomed daze. I resisted the urge to throw up again (only just). It was time to get going, I decided. I started the engine and pulled onto the road. I had only one thought on my mind then . . . one sickening thought . . . She knows.
Perhaps she had known from the very moment her lips touched the glass. Maybe, yeah. Maybe before that. Maybe that was why she had protested so fervently to the idea of meeting with me one last time. Good thing I was persistent. Yessiree, I'm telling you. I'm a lot of things; not a quitter. I don't have a quitter's mindset. Same with the smoking, I think.
I don't want to be with you, don't you understand? No – I'm telling you – leave me alone. I said no, you . . . Fine! Fine. One drink. And then I never want to see your face again – ever! You hear me?
Yes, Sarah. I hear you. One drink will do – that's all I need.
A stupid grin formed on my face as I remembered . . . I couldn't help it; I felt deliciously sly. 'Yes, pal, that's what you are,' I whispered, 'sly, conniving.' The corners of my mouth crept up to my ears, a devilish smirk forming on my face. I really couldn't help it. Sarah was gone, and that made me very happy indeed.
I drove on.
When the ambulance came into view, it stood on the side of the road in front of me. The storm had dissipated almost entirely. As did my fortitude. I no longer felt sly or conniving; I felt very much afraid . . . afraid of what I might find beyond the flashing lights and crowd of onlookers, the nosy bastards.
(I know what you did.)
I could feel my flat-cap, along with everything else, soaked in sweat, could feel my shirt stick to my back. My ass started to itch from the hot vinyl seat beneath me, and then my thighs; soon my entire lower half was sticky and itchy. Get out of this car NOW! You have to get out!
'Just try to look normal, pal. That's all you gotta do! Just look –' Sarah's car came into view.
Up until this point, I had been relatively cool, calm, and collected (under the circumstances, that is). Now I began to feel frightened – really frightened. What exactly was I doing here? What the hell had I hoped to achieve? Restoration? Payback?
Imaginary hands – large Ogre hands, dripping with mucus and sick –reached up into my ribcage, wrapped around my lungs, and squeezed. They didn't stop, these Ogre Hands. Oh no! I exhaled. They squeezed tighter. And tighter. And tighter. D–Don't p-panic, I told my frazzled mind as I fumbled into the glove compartment and pulled out a pack of L.A. Ice (I needed something to help me cope, okay!?)
It was a gruesome sight. All over my body hair prickled. I dry-swallowed two bitter tablets and . . . well . . . just sat there for a moment, staring. My God, Sarah.
What used to be Sarah's yellow Chevy was now a cluster of metal wrapped around a tree trunk, Sarah's body crushed in the midst. It had worked. The tranq drug had done its job, alright – almost too well.
'I did it. I killed the bitch.'
