Paint it Black

Chapter 9: If You Could See What I See

There hadn't been enough time in that short interaction to make a real decision. Not a decision with anything other than instinct to back it. The kid hadn't recognized his voice. But really, was that even a factor at this point? He hadn't recognized it this time, but what about a week from now? A month? At any time those memories could come back and ticking time bombs were never safe to leave unattended. He'd known it even before approaching the young man. He couldn't take the risk. He just needed to deal with this and split out of town. Hell, it would even be easy. The one thing he had picked up on, in that single interaction with the kid, was that getting into trouble seemed to come easily to him.

Nobody would even think twice if it found him again.

And nobody would ever suspect a thing.

0o0o0

His first attempt at paying for a taxi with Gus's card ended in embarrassment and threats of arrest by the driver who'd accused Shawn of shenanigans when he'd passed the man his buddy's library card. It had felt just like the Visa and with the invention of the Kindle nobody used a library card anymore. He hadn't thought twice about it.

Once actual money exchanged hands the driver had shown a more sympathetic streak. Uncomfortably so as he'd opened the taxi door for Shawn and grabbed his bicep. Though Shawn had tried squirming away, repeatedly insisting that he was fine, Grubbers the friendly taxi man hadn't released him until his free hand could brace against the wood frame of the office door. Mumbled thanks was enough by that point and the man had set him free with a jaunty admonition to “stay safe”.

There'd been a moment, after the sound of the cab had pulled away, when Shawn had panicked at being without both his key and cell phone. Finding them in his left pocket had poured a shiver of cool sweat between his shoulder blades, wondering how he could have forgotten putting them there.

He felt a narrow sliver glide into the crease of his thumb as he felt down to the knob. Pinpointing the keyhole with his fingertips, he dragged the head of the key across the opening, wiggling it as he tried to force it into the slot. Three tries and he was already muttering language more favored by his father than himself.

Why was it so damn hard!?

Grinding now, he gave up on finesse and jabbed the key towards the hole, certainly leaving marks and gouges around the narrow opening. But finally, finally it slid in place. Thank God! Sucking at the meaty part of his thumb as he pushed inside and let the door hang open behind him, he felt out the immediate area with his toes just to be sure a wandering desk hadn't made its way across the floor the last time he'd stopped by. Migrating furniture aside, no major obstacles covered his path other than a couple of paper balls – nothing with enough bulk to drop him to his knees.

He found his desk after a long shuffle bent forward like one of those rheumatoid afflicted old men from Shady Pines. Desperately hoping he hadn't been spotted lock-kneed and scrambling towards any solid surface, he kept his hand planted on the center of the desk while he pivoted around to where his chair supposedly sat. More success and he felt both shame and gratitude to make a solid landing on the cushion.

Would it always be this way? A series of steps just to get to the next safe patch of ground? Like the games he played with Gus when they were kids – the floor is lava so you can only hop from rug to rug, the safety zone being when you made it outside. But that last rug was always so hard to reach. Running jump and just the right landing would glide you like a rockstar to the threshold. Miscalculate, though, and on top of skinned elbows there usually involved a lecture from the old man about roughhousing and scratching the floor. As if the blood filling in the cracks of your elbow were a lesser blight than some invisible scrape on a patch of wood usually covered by braided cloth anyhow.