SNUFF (h.s.)

Chapter 44

Deportees

His mitts were wiping the windshield. They had fogged from his palm smudges. Each time a vehicle passed him once in a while he watched the driver waiting to encounter her face.

He opened the glove box to get his smokes. His teeth pulled one. He lit the butt. He brought it around when he grasped it. Every drag got him riled up. He threw it, some moments later he lit another one. He knew he shouldn't waste' em for his taste, hard times are chasing.

On the side of the street a dickey was walking.

The Caddy approached, it didn't sidelined. The four-legged creature seemed to know what he had done with Nora (Great Expectations), everything was revealed to the animal and its knowledge was irreversible. The donkey was staring in a broody rhythm as if it had grown tired of kids like him trying to drive into them because they were lighting a hand-rolled, or their nose was poking the map, or they were goosing it for a drag.

A company of donkeys appeared crossing the dirt side road of a small town. Harry turned to his left, he turned to his right. Himself was left trusting the long eternal road will lead to a destination, he kept stirring the wheel tireless and hoped he'd manage to escape. He followed the way to the donkeys' town.

California would emerge on sun's dawning light shadowing the cruel nights. When he arrived at the town he searched for a small local store or restaurant. Wide baskets with carnations were piled. He found a marble trough where the donkeys were drinking water, he went there to wash. To rinse the blood he had to rub it as if it was a greased dixie scrubbed with wire.

The animals didn't leave despite the rotting smell of a dug up corpse he had. He stunk of a week's sweat, he had streaks, dry mud and the fright of the road. He took of his shirt, he made a barrel out of it to clean himself with his less cruddy side. He sat on his knees, he put his head under the tap and let it there hanging as the freezing hard water was hitting his nape. He felt but the crude water. It was relentless stomping his neck, it flowed on his spine and rolled on his chest cutting his breathing. He sudden-sighed from the coolness, he spat and rubbed his mug. It was as if he hadn't washed since Roseville.

The marbled trough had red spots. He tried to drink from his palms, he was tasting thinned out blood. An abrupt spit from the bitterness. He opened his eyes. The was murk left – some dried blood had become his second skin. When he blinked the light seemed intense and azure as if he had been carried by a river wave away from where he's been.

It seemed that the donkeys had noticed his presence, though he'd seen people walking the town streets. He went to the Caddy, he searched for a pair of blue-jeans that wasn't soiled. There was a creased warm one in the back. He had no other. That was it, if it scanted then he'd had to make with the dirt. He coughed, the water was running on his forehead dripping on the seat.

When he returned to the trough he glanced to make sure nobody was taking a look. He removed his worn blue-jeans staying bare, he kneeled to wash one more time. He didn't recall a bunch, he didn't want it to be otherwise. She, her arms and an axe. He was scrubbing his body irritating it. He could fit in the street sink. His hand slipped and hit the tap. He stiffened the skin. He remained still for a moment as the water was numbing his thighs. He started to cry. He didn't know where he was, he didn't know where to go. What was he doing?

The water was sticking his cool hair on his eyes, his tears flowed along with the droplets on his chest. He rested his hand on the stone bench of an open sunflower garden which had a statue at the center and a pebbled path to reach it. Some water to wash he wished for. He lacked the courage for it. He leaned his head and cried for it. How had he become that man? He wouldn't take a second guess on his Chicago doings, he'd be back to her. What happens to her?