Howling Hours

Chapter Two: Distorted Lover

When she awoke from her sleep, her head hurt, and her eyes stung. She rubbed them with a closed fist, and scooted up, leaning against the bed once again. She touched her neck, touching the key and than the heart that hung around her neck. Gripping the key tightly.

After gaining her senses, she stood up, checking the locked window and locked door. Pushing the desk out of the way however, as she needed to prepare to leave. She checked the locks again as she went to gather her things.

The things she knew she needed to do included, throwing her dirty clothes in a garbage bag and putting the god forsaken box back as well. She stood in the middle of the room staring at the bed or a moment, thinking hard about the box. Her hand making her way up to her mouth as she she chewed one of her nails. If her mother was around she would've been chided and her hand would've been knocked away.

She continued to bite her nail and think.

As her mind raced around of the box situation, she willed herself to stop her nervous ticks, and  get ready to leave, despite it being the very early hours of the morning. She made her way to the bathroom locking herself in while she grabbed the necessary things out of it, such as the complimentary soap and shampoo. She stood in front of the sink looking for anything else she may need before she met her own grey blue eyes in the mirror.

Her dirty blonde hair reached her shoulders, she cut it a while back, by herself. It hadn't turned out very chic but it was good enough, it made her look different. Different was good. The hair wasn't curly, or straight or thin. It was thick but it didn't do anything good, just frizz and give her bad hair days.

Her face was round but her jaw ended in a soft point. Her cheek bones were nothing to write home about, just there on her face. She reached her hand up to her face and touched the scar that ran from her left earlobe down that side of her jaw, her thumb mimicking the way the knife swept across her. From her earlobe down her jaw, skipped over the space where her neck meets her head, and directly to where the scar continued. Inches away from her jugular. She hadn't died that night because of this scar. She loved and hated it. Just like she loved and hated not being dead.

After enough time staring at dull self in the mirror, she unlocked the door and shut it behind her. Checking the locks on the door and window.

She continued thinking long and hard about the box. She had half the mind to chuck it into the dense forest that surrounded the dodgy motel. It was on some near deserted road, no traffic lights and no other buildings. Chances of the box being found were next to none, but she still couldn't will herself to do it. She was paranoid of someone finding it and exploring its contents. Exploring her sisters life. It wasn't for anyone else to creep on. Not again.

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Paying in cash, she left the motel in the station wagon, locking the automatic door lock twice before checking each of the four doors by hand.  She had traded Marge's car for months ago for this one when she was in a seedy little town with an even seedier car dealer. Sure the car was old and beat up, but it was trustworthy, and would work well enough for driving cross country. The seats were fabric and had been torn up. Ripped in places, almost like an animal had torn through the seats. Where the seats weren't ripped they had cigarette burns, mostly on the roof of the car. The front of the car was nice enough, although there was no radio. Sophie didn't mind, she needed the silence. As for the back seat, it was missing most of the fabric, not that it mattered, she didn't really ever see the backseat. Her garbage bags were always thrown half haphazardly back there and covered the seats.

The green car had a rattle in the front end, one that she probably heard for the first time a couple hundred miles back. Sophie ignored it. She had more things pacing through her head than car troubles. Where she was going, when she would stop running. If she would stop running. She didn't know. But she knew that the highway she was on would lead her from Idaho to somewhere in Oregon. Maybe she'd stop in some dead end down there, where she would hunker down and live like a hermit, with her tightly locked doors and drawn windows. She hadn't settled anymore more than a week and a half since she left Aunt Marge's house after she turned 18.