Hidden Valley (D. SWING)

XXIV. Lynching Park

All white people are not racist.

It only happens to be that just about half of them are. All white people in North Carolina are not racist either, it just happens to be that about three quarters of them are. If you take half of a country's race, the race that makes up the majority, and pull out the racist ones... that is a lot of people. Now, take those racists and place a few of them in the woods, make them rednecks too. Don't put too many, only put enough to fill up roughly six trailers. Okay, great, the picture is painting itself. Let's top it off with some finalizing details to spark it up. Perhaps, the sprinkle of glitter should add a hint of unwanted color.

Don and Cynthia, they shine all too bright in the evening beneath a crisp white moon.

His head rests on the steering-wheel. Each and every joule of oxygen he once possessed has officially escaped his lungs, though to keep from terminating his lifetime at only seventeen, he inhales in order to regain control of it all. Eyes closed, Don has taken a moment to focus on only himself. The level of ignorance Cynthia has succumbed to sit on in order to bother him, or work his nerves, has proven to him that she is far beyond a teenage girl who is being petty because of an unsolved issue. It has become clear to him that she is clearly bothered by something. No one in the world in her position should have any rightful nerve to treat him the way she does after all that he has done for her. She is seeking attention and he is starting to realize it.

Much more calm than before, Don allows his head to rise from the steering-wheel. His eyes prefer to continue avoiding her. "So, what we're going to do is..." In the middle of his breath between his verbal ellipses, Cynthia gains control of the conversations narrative.

"Don't you mean you?"

His head turns to the right side in the exact moment his patience snaps in half. "Can you shut up and let me talk?" Cynthia's lips partially part just enough to allow the smallest of all gasps to flee from her lips. Her folded arms turn to stone, as does the glare within Don's hazel eyes. "There's a gas station down 'nere about two miles down the road. We can get down there and call somebody to pick us up. First, we gotta' push the car to the edge of the road. Unless you want to sit in this car by yourself?" He wouldn't leave her... ever. It was only a threat, though do to his anger and her own surprise, it was an extremely effective threat.

He looks back over his shoulder at the empty, dark road and fights off a sigh. He's frustrated and, honestly, a little scared. Of all places, she had to stop the car directly outside of the outskirts of Lincoln Trailer Park, more commonly known as Lynching Park and the name was well earned. The chances of them surviving this situation are slim, the chances of him surviving are much slimmer.

"Get in the car and keep the wheel turned to the right and I'm going to push, okay?"

Cynthia says nothing in response. Instead, she silently climbs into the driver's seat when Don exits the car. He worryingly looks over his shoulder at the dark road to assure no other bodies are roaming the streets at the same time as the two. Sighing, Don turns back to Cynthia. Plainly sitting in the seat, as if the predicament is not nearly as bad as it is, Cynthia does as she was told and keeps the wheel turned to the right.

Initially, it takes Don a single push to get the car rocking. Having a single arm to work with spoils the initial plan of the average person. Unfortunate for him, Cynthia is not strong enough to push the car while he steers. Instead, he places his behind against the back end of the vehicle. His lower body strength showcases itself as the car slowly, but surely, creeps off of the road and closer toward the curb.

"Cut it straight, Cyn."

Cynthia, her hand keeping the wheel in place, peeks out of the open car door. "What's that mean?"