The Mental Patient

Chapter 12 - Dinner with Death

STARS are only burning dots in the cooling scathe of the night air. The woods soon end and there is light at the end of Franklin Drive. The Truck Stop is situated at the end of a cul-de-sac; it was once surrounded by homes and other small businesses, due to the hungry higher-uppers they have moved in to the area on the people's land and broken up bonds and memories which have been built-up over the time, then shipped the families out and split the bonds apart forever. No more room in Brit-Inn.

The Truck Stop is now a rundown cafe; it was the last building to be demolished and had a few more weeks before the business had to relocate. It had been renovated so many times the old fixtures haven't fully been removed. It has dissimilar chairs; tables and the themed decorations have been mixed-up from Sci-Fi focuses to an elegant restaurant ambience. My eyes follow up the street, it was so long that the road came to an arrow point in the distance, half the streetlights were off as people had tinkered with innards of the lamps, stolen wires and copper comes at a cheap price. The glow from the cafe shone the darkness away.

C'mon brain, think a way out of this, you can do it.

The ding of the door chime rings. Eyes peer over food and steamy coffee, ogling possible new table neighbours.

"Jess, here is a couple of pounds, order us a coffee or something."

There must be twelve people including the waitress and chef. Before their heads lift from their plates, I ram my bloody hands into my pockets and scuttle off to the cesspool toilets. Passing the shrill dying outcry tempo from the radio and heaves of chewy food and slurping hot drinks.

Jessica shoots me a look as if to say the task was too big for her to handle by her lonesome. "Kyle, I need to talk to you." She mutters.

I did hear her puled noise, but I must be disinterested at the moment, there are more pressing matters.

I fly open the door and I am met by a cracked fingerprinted mirror, there are two stalls, one has no door and the other is hanging on by its bottom hinge. The entire bathroom is painted in phone numbers, jokes, with the pleasantries of piss and shit stains. The landfill stench arms up both nostrils. I trundle over to the sink and run both taps and drown my hands under, the blood dilutes and spirals away. No drying facilities so I air-dry my bony grabbers. My incriminating jacket is tossed into the stall, the one no one can get in to, I know it's not a permanent fix and will be found at some point, but time is of the essence to escape.

I have cleaned my act up. I exit the toilet and clock Jessica sitting at a booth table with two cups of hot drinks and two fucking cops talking to her. Great, what now?

I slink onto a countertop seat; I need a better position to hear what the coppers are pitching.

"May I ask how long you have lived around the area? Do you have any friends or family around these parts, Miss?" The tall cop says, his gut is anchored on my sister. They must be here for us... Shit.

Jessica burrows into her troubled bubble; the steam off the brews has the centre of her attention. They are going to know something is up if she keeps on hesitating like this.

"I've lived round here all my life, with my big brother and Dad. I'm sorry... it's been a long day and I can't remember a lot... I'm waiting for my brother at the minute... And, we kind of keep ourselves to ourselves, we don't have friends round here... Sorry." She should have lied better.

The cops share a glare followed by the nod of his head to his compadre, this means a definite forgery has been found. She won't be able to notice any of this, damn.

"It's just that there was a fire at a home not too far from here, just across from those trees outside, look, you can see the smoke. And, a young male and female were seen fleeing the scene of the fire and a murder. We have been given a description of both the siblings. You say you're waiting for your brother? Where's he then? Can you tell us?"

Fuck this... Here I am.

"JESSICA – GET UNDER THE TABLE!" I lean over the countertop and grasp two gravy leeched steak knives left beside the plates yet to be washed. I stand up on my seat, spin and leap into the air with both blades. The two officers look up to me as if Lucifer was falling from the skies, again. I crash down to earth with a wistful ruthlessness to see some redness stream. Both sharp peaks perch perfectly in their windpipes, gurgles and glib gulps gush outwards. I wrench out my weapons of choice and the gut-wrenching whoops are whipped around the room along with flying pig's blood. Three men stood, one man stands. Everyone hits the deck and the nine-nine-nine on their touch phones. The sheer audacity of the police sends my thoughts to the carnage I carry, mass acres of massacres. Where were they when I was being murdered?

One knife tumbles from my deadly touch, as it hits the floor the oaky auburn handle and serrated edge jumps in time on the floor tiles with the chimed note of blood, a true mechanism of musical murder, scream before me.

I extend a dripping hand for Jessica's. She travels around in her own traitorous torment. Her eyes water, she can't blink. The shakes have possessed the princess.

"C'mon... We have to leave." Jessica breathes hurt. I almost go berserk. Footsteps aren't enough here, we need more speed; we need tires and an engine. I scope around the diner and look for a guy, one whom has the looks of a rape-suspect, I am sure he has a truck parked around here. We're in luck, I've found a fuck.

"Hey Fat-man, you got a truck? Before you answer, if you want to keep the marshmallow jelly at your waistline, I suggest you reply, yes. I would hate to spoil your figure."

The grubby chap becomes skittish; he chatters his teeth and champs up his chest, holding his hands out. Please put your plea away. The heavy-set guy runs out of lung capacity; how hard is it to stand on your feet? I'm not asking him to find his cock.