No, Eleanor

03

The road was bumpy, unstable, yet Fender insisted he drove his truck to my hometown - from Michigan to Cleveland, which takes over five hours or so, with no stops. It was an old vehicle that chattered with a pungent engine, which triggered my nose whenever he opened the window. He would complain, arguing that he could only drive if he were comfortable - his right arm resting on the door with his window down. He also made the point that I should've brought an inhaler for such a journey, which, I'll admit, would've been a good suggestion if I had asthma, but he should've still respected my health.
"Can you turn on the radio?" I asked, wanting rid of the silence that filled the truck.
"Sure." was his response as he pressed the button, awakening the speakers.
The music was loud, hypnotic, and it soothed my head. I wasn't sure what it was, for I hadn't heard it before, but it sounded on the edgy side. I liked it.
"What's this?" I asked naively.
Fender gasped sarcastically, "You haven't heard of Depeche Mode before?"
I shook my head.
"What are you? A baby? I grew up on this shit. I live and breathe it."
"Sorry to step on your toes. I like it, actually." I laughed softly as he began to bop his head along to the beat.
"So you should," he stated, "sorry if I'm a tad hyper. Shouldn't have eaten a whole bag of peanut butter cookies... you're a psycho for letting me do that to myself."
"Ha!" I let out, my face embracing a smile, "It's not my fault you have no self control."
"What makes you think that?" he smirked, trying to stop himself from laughing.

Most of the journey we didn't utter a word about black magic, nor the spirit I was trying to track. I figured I should let him process and unwind first, as I could understand how challenging this change could be for him.

"You know," I began, "when I first saw your initials? They made me hungry."
Fender twisted his neck around to look at me with judgement slowly, "How?"
I giggled cheekily, my head sparking up a fantastic idea, "F.C! You're KFC to me now. That's your nickname."
"I'm mortified." he released from his lips breathily, which made me laugh.
"Your looks are deceiving. You're sweet." I assured him, patting his knee.
Whilst changing gears to stop the truck from squeaking, he spoke, "I could be your worst nightmare. So don't play around with me. I'm no sweetheart. But I can be adorable."
"You're a sweetheart." I argued.
"You know my story, but you don't know me." he argued back, "Well, anyway. I don't understand how my journal ended up in a thrift store. I thought I burned it the second I lost Stephen."
I shrugged, "Apparently not. Was in as neat of a condition as it could be."
"Huh." Fender let out, seemingly uninterested with the conversation now.

I let him drive. I let him race other drivers on the road as though he were driving an F1 type Ferrari. I let him find comfort in the whoosh of the air that rushed into the truck from the open window. I watched the energy in him die; he was afraid. Perhaps he regretted not closing the door in my face.

"Fender?"
"Ellie." he replied, focused on the road ahead.
"Thank you." I smiled, squeezing his knee comfortingly.
He ignored me, readjusting his posture in his seat, "So, what's the job?"
"It can wait. Just breathe, relax. I can tell you're stressed." I spoke softly.
"I'm a Cosgrove." he stated, "Cosgroves show no fear. No mercy. Nothing on display besides rage."

I could tell he was the type of guy that was brought up to be emotionless, which is common for young boys. Their fathers are often afraid that their sons will grow up to be 'too soft', projecting their fears and worries. So, in order to wipe that fate, they teach boys to be strong, brave. They expect soldiers, artillery. They make their sons into monsters to assure they can protect themselves. This is the path that Fender walks.

"I appreciate you." I said, breaking the silence.
"Cool." he replied.
"Just putting it out there. Sorry. I can just tell you're distressed and... well, it's my fault."
"No, I think we need to end this, once and for all. I need to ease back into the job. I was born a fighter, I'll go down a fighter. It's just— honestly? I'm afraid to die," he confessed, "seeing the way my dad went, my mom, my brother, Stephen... it was all inhumane. Painful. Remorseless. I don't want that for me, you know? If I'm going, I want to go normally. Give me a heart attack, give me cancer, something. I just don't want to go through what they went through."
I watched as his eyes began to glaze, "I won't let that happen."
"You're just a young girl. You've got a family, or what's left of one." he began, "If it comes down to it? Where it's you or me that dies? I'll always choose me over you. It's in my blood."
I smiled, "With all due respect? I'm not a 'young girl', I'm twenty-four years old. A woman. I can look out for myself, buster."
"Ha," he let out, "we'll have to see."