Keep Running

Chapter 1

The sun is rising. I don't know why that doesn't seem to matter. I walk through the field, my hands brushing the blades of grass. I want to feel them. And this moment. Because it will be over all too soon. I just don't want to go back. And I don't even know why. I know I'm not supposed to feel like this. But I do. And I'm sick of it. I'm so tired and I never feel like I rest even when I sleep.
I reach the road. Black asphalt, yellow lines. Bright and orderly. There's frozen dew on the grass. An unusually cold morning. But I'm never cold. Which is bad since I'm never warm either I just am. And I'm tired of just being.
A car is coming. I stand there and watch. I don't care anymore if someone finds me; it really doesn't matter. I don't even know why I did this. I don't expect the car to stop, but it does. It's a red truck, old, and quite dented.
"Need a ride?"
"Ah—" I look at the girl in the car, not much past twenty, short hair died an unnatural color, plenty of piercings, and red flannel shirt. She cracks gum, looking me up and down a bit. Of course I'm wearing a plain white sweatshirt, white sweatpants, and white trainers. In short, I look like I escaped from somewhere. Which of course I just did.
"Sure," I say, despite being aware I should not. They wouldn't hurt her, would they? No, they'll just collect me eventually. Probably send the boy to do it.
"Get in," she says, snapping her gum again.
I walk around and get in the passenger seat, as she clears a bag of Cheetos and a purse off of it.
"Where are you headed?" she asks, as I close the door which isn't all that secure and fumble with the seatbelt. The seat is pulled too far forward, but I don't adjust it; there's bags and things in the back.
"I don't----I don't know, anywhere---wherever you want to drop me off," it really doesn't matter exactly like everything.
"You---want to earn some extra cash?" she asks, snapping her gum.
"Um---maybe," I frown. She's okay with picking me up? Women don't typically do that do they? And I'm not not acting like I'm escaped from somewhere.
"I'm headed home for Thanksgiving—my parents are super conservative, they will flip if I bring home some old dude---can you act like a hipster? And say really liberal things a lot? Also, it would help if you acted like you had a drug problem---so if you come, and pretend to be my boyfriend, bonus points if you propose on Thanksgiving night—then I will pay you a hundred bucks—plus you get someplace to stay and meals---deal?" she asks.
"Sure," why not? Why shouldn't I? It's not like any of it matters where I go or what I do. I'm sure I'll be found and that will only play into her charade.
"Cool. I'm Asta," she says, holding out a hand, not really focusing on the road.
"Hi," I say, shaking it quickly.
"What's your name?"
"Whatever you want, really," I say, looking down at my hands. Why are they shaking?
"You don't have a name?"
"No."
"What're you doin' on the side of the highway, dressed like you're from a cult or something?"
That's a good question and I should have prepared a better answer considering I am doing this but I have not. "I ah—just got out of prison."
"Got out as in they let you out?"
"No. I hope you don't mind."
"What were you in prison for?"
"Murder," I say, still looking at my hands, "It was for murder."
"Did you do it?"
"What?" I'm confused now.
"Did you do it? I ain't gonna care. Lot of people have it comin'---to get killed. But did you really kill someone?"
"Yes, I really killed someone. More than one someone. You can let me out if you want. I don't mean you any harm."
"I would kick you out---if you'd said hadn't done it. Murderers I can accept, I can't stand a liar," she says, spitting her gum out the window.
"What do you want me---do you still want me to come with you?" I don't think she should want me to come with her.
"Yeah of course! This is way better, we'll just tell my parents you're on parole and not escaped," she says, dismissively, "It'll be fine."
"Okay," this does not seem like a solid plan, "I thought you didn't like liars."
"Never said I liked myself, Van."
"What?"
"That's what I'm calling you Van---Van Halen," she points at the radio, "I just made that up."
"Is that who's playing?" I ask.
"Yeah---what you don't listen to music?"
"No. My boy does," I say. I should pay attention. I don't. I know the songs he likes I know the ones he's always playing, but I don't know what they're called.
"Cool," she turns up the music, "Driver picks the music---though if my parents ask you need to be into metal."
"Understood," I need to be into metal. Got it. Don't know what that means but. Got it.