THE CALL OF HER

12

The quiet hum of the truck fills your ears, your crossed arms gently vibrate. Your tired eyes stare at the road, sunrise is due for motion any minute. You've passed two small towns, and several hundred corn fields.

"So, not a morning person?" Brian takes a sip of his coffee, glancing over at you. The urge to grunt is so close in your throat, but instead you just ( nod / shake ) your head. The way his jeans hug his thighs and how the fabric of his hoodie is stained is the perfect balance of; Yes, Of course I shower! and; Um, yeah, of course I use 2 - in - 1 men's shampoo!

I wonder what Monica's doing right now- Oh, yeah. It's always those questions that come around more than they did when the person your asking about is dead. It's probably just a natural reminder, go on a couple months and then boom! Hm...I wonder what *blanks* doing! And then remember that they're fucking dead. Your mood instantly sours even more at the sentences that run rapidly in your head. 

"Can I have a phone to contact my Mom and Dad? If I don't they'll...oh, yeah." Your words are wasted in the air, giving a win to the man to your left. "I forgot I'm wanted for fucking murder." You glare at Brian, not caring about his annoyance or twitch of the lip.

The wind outside the truck begins to slow, and the trees wave less. 

"You chose to get wrapped up into this bullshit, so I don't get why you're so pissed about it." Brian mutters, slowing down to stop at a stop sign. You watch him slide a pack of cigarettes out, and gesture one kindly into his lips. And then, scare it with fire to the face. You watch the cigarette scream, and let out it's oxygen in smoke. 

"By trying to find my ex-girlfriend and check up on her?" You narrow your eyes on the dirty blonde.

"Yeah, the ex-girlfriend that's a fuckin' serial killer." Brian chuckles, rolling down his window to let out the pooling smoke. A cool breeze pushes its way in, and says hello to your skin. "You sure do pick your battles."

Brian chooses to ignore the conversation, and begins searching with his free hand for something. "Can you open the glove box for me kid?" He gestures to the compartment before you.

"Sure." You roll your eyes, and open the glove box to be met with papers and brown napkins most likely from McDonald's. Grabbing the most recent paper, you hold it up to look it over. A picture of a woman's ID card stares back at you, her blue eyes winged with black eyeliner and her blonde hair touched with brown roots. 

A hand snatches the paper from your grasp, wrinkling it's side. "Private information, lady." Brian mutters, and lays it down on his lap for him to read for himself.  "Hm, look out for this address, will 'ya?" The only this he lets you see is a short address, making your stomach drop.

"This one." You point to the small white farm house, one single black Buick in it's gravel driveway. 

Brian slowly turns to park beside the big willow tree on the side of the road, and shuts the truck off. You watch him flick his cigarette outside the window before rolling it up. The truck keys are slid into his back pocket, and the paper is left in his seat as he opens his door and steps out.