𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘈𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘛𝘳𝘦𝘦

Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Gas Station

"We're here, Chantelle," Ben said, cutting the unbearable silence that filled the car the past few hours.

I'm pretty sure I fell asleep about halfway through the drive, but I woke up after we ran over some roadkill and my coffee spilled all over me. I had been sitting in cold, dried coffee for the past hour. At least I could say, I was squirming to get out of the car.

I unbuckled my seat and turned to my door to walk outside. We had stopped at a sketchy gas station in the middle of nowhere. The air smelled of roadkill, cigarettes, beer, and or course;

Gasoline.

I wasted no time heading over to the building to go use the bathroom and clean off the mess that was myself. But, I suddenly felt a hand grab my forearm, and gently jerked me to turn and face Ben.

"Hey, are we good?" Ben asked.

I paused, hesitant, 'Yeah? Why wouldn't we?"

Ben looked flustered now, "Oh, no reason, it's just that, uh-"

"You need a second?"

"No, no, it's just cause of what happened in the car, I didn't want things to be awkward,"

"They weren't, and they still aren't"

"Okay, that's good," Ben paused, looking into my eyes, "I'll - uh, let you use the bathroom, sorry,"

He let go of my arm gently, and I walked off to use the bathroom. From the wrong angle, it looks like I had shat myself.

Or dried period blood.

Or just dried blood.

Either way, not something I want people to think of me.

Or maybe I do-

I opened the door to the gas station, where I was greeted with a lousy old man who looked as old as dirt, and a squeaky bell that echoed throughout the store. The old man stood behind the cashier's stand, counting cash and checks from the register. Seemingly, paying no attention to anyone in the store; off in his own little world.

I walked past him to go use the restroom, and I avoided touching the handle to the bathroom door, who knows what creeps have touched that thing.

I locked myself into a stall and relieved myself, ugh; I had been holding it in for awhile now.

I remember when I was younger, I would look under the stalls of public restrooms to see what shoes people were wearing. It was always old lady shoes or some fancy air forces, but besides the point; I was a creepy kid.

Maybe that's why I am the way I am today.

Maybe?

No.

Of course not.

I finished up in the restroom and washed my hands. I don't get why people don't wash their hands. You have to. My hands feel all grimy and icky after I use the bathroom, I literally can't leave the bathroom without washing my hands.

I also never got why there were the "Employees Must Wash Their Hands Before Returning To Work" signs. Do people have to be reminded to wash their hands?

Who even raised them. Cause it was clearly not my father, or else they would be smacked left and right if they got their grimy hands all over my dad's fresh, homemade cooking. The delicious aroma would fill every nook and cranny in that house. Now that - that was the smell of home. 

Home.

God. I miss my dad right now. I hope he's okay, not worrying too much. I mean, how much can a dad worry from seeing his daughter on national television for a possible murder.