The Run

191-2

He's barely twenty miles out of the city when his heart drops at the realization that his wallet is missing. He has stopped at a gas station to buy some snacks and drinks for the long travel ahead, and it only dawns on him when he's filled in a basket and walks towards the counter to pay. His blood freezes in his vein as he remembers his backpack falling to the ground when that clumsy waitress bumped into him. The bag wasn't closed then, as he was still fumbling with the zip after seeing that name on tv.

The man feels his hands start to tremble again, but this time there's no panic, just a boiling anger that spreads through his whole body. He can't lose control. Not here. Not now. So he takes in a deep breath, closing his eyes to try and savor the oxygen filling his lungs, before setting his full basket down on the dirty tiles of the shop. He doesn't even think of the poor worker who's gonna have to bring all the products back to their respective aisles. He has no time for that. Instead, trying to keep his countenance, he walks at a normal pace towards the exit. Only when he's out of sight does he start sprinting, and when he finally reaches the car - why did he park so far? - he's out of breath and his hands have resumed their nervous trembling. 

He plops down behind the wheel, slams the door shut, and lets out a curse word. He didn't use to swear, but it's become second nature now, and he doesn't even flinch at the words that come out of his mouth. Frustrated with himself, he hits the wheel a few times, wishing he could hurt himself more than that to get rid of the anger that consumes him. How could he be so stupid? How could he let that happen? He's managed to stay unnoticed for so long, and this dumb little thing could blow up his whole plan, and what's left if his plan fails? 

Tears of wrath start to blur his vision. He is so sick of himself. He hates every inch of his body, and his mind even more. Everything he has ever done has been poured down the drain due to one stupid mistake, and he had sworn to himself it would never happen again, yet there he is, screwing things up since 1988 and then getting himself sick by feeling so sorry for himself he can't even stare at his reflection in a mirror without wanting to throw up the little amount of food he ingests per day. He is disgusting. And then he wonders how could anyone be able to love him?

The man looks up, suddenly frozen at the thought of the only person that would have loved him through thick and thin. Almost instantly, his breathing goes back to a more acceptable pace, and his hands determinedly grip the wheel as his mind races through all of the possibilities that now awaits him. He rules them out one by one, then settles on the one that makes the most sense. The only thing the man lacks now is hope. He wishes he could pray for it, before remembering that he doesn't even believe in that anymore.

When he's finally back at Benny's Burger, it's almost two in the afternoon. He hasn't been that long in driving back, but there is very little hope that the wallet, and the massive amount of dollar bills inside, are still there. Still, he breathes in and out - it helps with the trembling - and makes a movement towards the door when it suddenly opens before he has the chance to reach the handle.

Dark emerald eyes cross his look before the thin body of the same fucking waitress slams into his. Her hair is disheveled, a black leather bag is dangling from her right arm and she's holding a bunch of notes in her hands, and he can't help the words that come out of his mouth. "What the f-" he stops himself from swearing once more, "AGAIN?"

But he can't even start rambling aggressively against her because, after the look of surprise disappears from her features, she gives a seemingly relieved smile and takes his hand in hers. "Thank God you're here!" she whispers rapidly, dragging him away from the door. "Go on, run!

"Wh-" he starts, a look of confusion crossing his face, but the girl is surprisingly strong, and she pulls him so hard he takes a step towards the road, his foot slipping on the curb. "Come on!" she insists, "I've got your wallet!"