The Mormon Renegade

Chapter 2

Bolting onto another pedestrian crossing, my shorts are clipped by a wreck less driver causing my feet to trip over, scraping my knee caps along the gravel road. The car screeches to a stop short of hitting other walking pedestrians. 

I wince but there's no time to address the injury, ignoring the painful throbs. Collecting the hoodie and wrapping it around my waist I somersault forward last minute. A zooming motorcycle narrowly misses me, his tire guaranteed to have rammed my head had I been remotely slower.

Using the momentum to stand I slide over the next vehicle's bonnet arriving on the pavement as a mirrored reflection reveals the wreck less driver is my mother, eyes full of rage and loathing.

"There's a special place in hell for people like you!" She barks after me like a rabbid dog to which I respond without a passing beat, "Then I'll see you on the highway to hell, ma!" The shock that overcomes her face is priceless.

If I had a camera I would've frozen the memorable second in time, capturing a focused image cropped to her head. Then I'd upload it to a computer --if I had one-- and make it my screen saver to remind me that I have every right to do what I'm doing.

The loud thuds my footsteps make force those on the footpath to divert as if moved by an invisible force field.

The scene reminds me of the red sea bible passage, instead I am the Israelites while everyone else in town are the Egyptians. Three blocks ahead the bus rear rotates into a familiar side way street. I've got it.

A police car cuts me off at the next crossing and Sheriff Barney rears his ugly bald head. "Michelle, you know better than this!" All the bottled anger I had toward him is released when I slam my foot against the driver door catching his shin as he tries to emerge. 

His agonising yells are left in the dust as I cut through various house yards speeding along their freshly mown grass. Dodging kids playing tag and neighbours mid discussion is harder than I initially thought taking this shortcut. "Sorry!" I call back, guilt gnawing the pit of my stomach.

I'm closer now, the Greyhound logo is within twenty long strides. Just a little more.

Closing the gap so fast the speed make my shorts bunch around my thighs and upper arm when suddenly the ground makes an unwanted appearance slamming into my forehead, scraping the sensitive skin there. A loose screw caught my shoelace loop.

"You alright there, girl?" I see double of the house owner who makes an appearance but I'm far too occupied to notice. Prying the material free of the fence I see the teal bus parked again five or so paces ahead, passengers exchanging places. 

Time is running out. I'd hate to imagine what would happen if I'm caught. Pain stabs the sensitive spot above my ankle when pressure is applied, so I use the deteriorated fence panel as an anchor, pulling myself along.

I ignore the personal inquiries made by multiple house owners who emerge from their picturesque houses to view the source of the pandemonium.

Fence to gate from cottage to mansion.

There must be someone talking to the driver because it maintains its position against the kerb, it's side mirrors reflecting sun rays onto my sweaty forehead. Lurching forward at a much slower pace I limp to freedom already imagining life away from this Mormon and racist madness. 

It's so close I can taste the feeling, it's addicting. I wonder if Beckette had to fight this hard.

Woo, woo.

I spoke too soon.

Police sirens glow red and blue on the bus exterior.