Holding My Breath [Wattys 2016]

4 ~ R u s t y

                

Present Day ~ May 5, 2011

The grey, ashy roads of Wallen, Virginia stay eerily quiet as I try to hide my face.

The snapshots of people and snippets of words are everywhere, buzzing around me like bees. The sun beating down on their faces makes them look like one huge monster, not individuals. They're not even looking at me, not right now. But it's always the same. After a few days, they'll get interested.

They'll start talking.

I'll stop listening.

I think of letting my feet drag me back to my last hiding place. Then I remember the note in my back pocket. I remember the look on the face of the man who gave it to me.

I remember his gun shots.

I keep my eyes trained on the diner in the distance while I walk. My hands are shaking, and I feel like I'm going to drop my bags. The mountains surrounding this crater are only there to trap me in. The people crawling through the town are only there as witnesses.

The last time I was in this town, I left running for my life. I waited long enough, thought. Surely the police will think I'm long gone. Surely they'll be searching somewhere else by now. Surely I won't make that mistake again...

So the cops catch up every now and then. But I've always gotten away.

It takes me a moment to realize that I've walked too far, that I've passed the soft hum of the diner's AC unit. I have to backtrack to the sound of my clinking boots so that I can see it. Archie's Diner, a hole-in-the-wall restaurant, shielded by fading bricks and defended by a cavalry of outdoor seating.

I blink once, twice. It feels like years since I've been here, in front of Archie's. Who knew that I would end back up in this town, the town that almost caught me?

I shift the strap of my duffel higher on my shoulder.

The diner. In or out? Should I risk it?

Then I can't help but back away, my heart only sinking at the washed out sign and rusting park bench. It's too dangerous.

Instead, I find a blank spot on the wall outside, close enough to the clusters of people, but far enough to keep most of the attention off of me. My face.

I open my guitar case, welcoming the curious glances from strangers who haven't seen me before, and pull out my acoustic six string.

When I look down at the guitar in my hands, when I feel the tension of the strings beneath my fingertips, I take a deep breath. I let my mind clear and the worry drops from my shoulders. Something in my mind sticks to the music and I start to strum. Something inside me keeps me from showing off, from making a spectacle of myself, but I can't stop playing now. Not once I've started.

So I play. I smile. I shake out the nerves and nausea that Wallen brings me and let it out through the melody. I hum to the tune my fingers create. I nod at people who drop green in my case.

It's not me, exactly. It's a ghost of who I was. But I'll let it be, just for now.

This is my last chance. Like hell if I'm not going to make the most of it.