Three Of A Kind

Part Four- Burning asphalt

John

The draft hadn't come as any surprise to me, more of a burden than any thing, something chaining me to the ground. After all, I had already declined their two attempts to drag me into this stupid war. I don't know for sure if they rigged this shit,- if the draft can be rigged-or if it was just plain bad luck that this document caught me when it did.

I shove open the door to my only closet and come face to face with my old uniform. I have the one that is camo and baggy, the older model. The new ones that they are no doubt giving to the draft members, are close to skin tight, black colored uniforms. They aren't anything you'd wear to an awards ceremony, but they get the job done. I would know, I've used that kind of uniform as well. I don't know exactly what happened to it, might've sold it for booze. Not like I needed the money. It carries too many memories, I probably just trashed it.

Slamming the closet closed I broke the hinges off, "well shit, thats just perfect!" I screamed at the closet, like it could hear me.

In my mind I can already hear the squeaking of the wheels and smell the burning asphalt as the plain, undistinguished car takes me away from my home.

Looking at the clock I realized my nightmare was going to come true in around three hours. I ruffled my already messy hair and walked over the the cement section of the large condo. Punching bags lined the wall, different weights and designs flashed and I picked one at random. I stood the sack of sand back up in the corner, hanging in up on the somewhat flimsy hook that holds it above ground. My history as a UFC fighter served me well in the armed forces but, just like in the ring, it dawned on me that I didn't want to fight. Not voluntarily at least, I had to have a purpose. Well, doesn't everyone?

Fighting in the ring was great at first, when I had a purpose. After awhile though, I reminded myself that fighting in a crowded area, dripping with sweat and blood is not what she would've wanted me to do. So I tried to find strength in the airforce, find something worth fighting for.

But what has this country ever done for me? Not much shit, thats what.

Now I live off the cash made from fighting. I am weak. I am pathetic.

Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic!

*
"John I don't know how much longer I can go on like this. You're never home, we are living paycheck to paycheck, and you always seem to be getting into stupid little fights over nothing! John you have to clean this up, its just not working!"

"Its okay Sara, everythings under control, I promise. You just have to trust me."

"Thats what you said last time, John. Then you show up at the door with bloody hands and I find out you gambled all our money away! And I stayed, I stayed! After that! John I love you, you know that and I know that. But this was the last straw John. I can't stay anymore, and you know it. I have to go."

She turns her head to the side, hiding her face behind a curtain of fawn colored hair, one sheer white streak dyed on the side for purity. I stared at that white streak for the longest time until she faced me again, kohl eyes flashing with tears in the dim light.

She ran to the bedroom and came back with a prepacked bag and walked towards the door. She had been expecting this to happen.

Did she want me to fail? Did she know what she was doing to me?

I step in front of the door, fists clenched.

"John, please move." Again, she turned her head. Again she hid from me.

What was she so afraid of? We had always been able to work these things out. What was different?

I stayed put.

"John," our eyes meet and her voice goes real quiet, "John I know you wouldn't hurt me..."

Then everything goes dark.

The bag flies off the chain and the blood on my knuckles drips onto the concrete floor in small splotches of red.

Modern art.

"Damn it," I mutter to myself, "not again..." I clean up my hands but before I replace the bag I check the time, and immediately hear the squeak of wheels. Mind still fuzzy from the flashback, I scramble around for the duffel and sprint down the stairs of the luxury condo, already paid off so no worries about the god awful rent.

"Fuck fuck fuck fuck, shit I hate being late." I muttered, racing down the steps two at a time, knocking over a very expensive vase in the process. If you hadn't noticed, I tend to mutter a lot.

I close the door and lock it, throwing the keys in the random flower pot sitting on my porch like a pro and heave myself up and onto the floor of the truck.

Made it.

No matter how much I don't want to participate in this war, I don't want to go through what happens if I don't "participate." See they always show the great parts of being in the military on commercials. They don't show faces of family members when they get the letter, or what the person goes through if they run away from the draft.

You don't want to know what happens when you run. Even I am smart enough not to. And thats saying a lot.

I find a seat and put on my shades, shades come in handy when you want to look at somone but you don't want them to know that you're looking at them. Did that make sense? Yes, yes it did. I put on shades because I wanted to see who I would be spending the next few hours or days with, depending on how far away the camp was from Louisiana. None of the kids looked interesting, none looked like fighters either. So I slipped my hat down and leaned back, trying to fall asleep.

The last thing I can remember about the god awful road trip is the smell of the burning asphalt in the midday sun.

***
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