FicWad

The fuel gauge was on empty. My car’s gas-tank was almost dry, and a pounding had started in my head. I had it all worked out, but the poor gas mileage the Trans gets wasn’t working out. I’d stop in East Berlin, Connecticut. There I could fill up on gas before heading towards Brooklyn, Massachusetts. It would be a round-about, like a false trail, a wild-goose chase. They’d think that they’d have me trapped while I was heading south.

But first I needed some goddamn gas.

Before I left Belleville, I stopped and withdrew what they called suspicious amounts of money from my college-fund- at least, what was left of my college-fund. My step-dad and I had some habits we had to feed: Alcohol, cigarettes, my Xanax. It dug into my college-fund; my brother didn’t even have one. My poor baby-brother, he wasn’t completely deprived. He had food, water, and some shitty shelter. When I wasn’t completely wasted, I held him, protected him from the only evil figure he could identify in his life. My habit was always just that: a bad habit, to him at least. In his eyes, my step-father and I didn’t have the same demons. Maybe that’s why I killed him, to kill an older version of myself.

He could save up now, though. He didn’t have my step-father wasting income on beer, and I was gone with my college-fund. Maybe, just maybe, ma and he could have a life that was just a bit more peaceful. Ma didn’t want me, Mikey had his friends. The police would take care of me and bring me back, dead or alive.

I pulled into a gas station. It was old and rusted, scorch marks on the concrete drive. An overturned garbage-can was infested with moulded fast-food and flies. Looks like my kind of place. It was the kind of place that had a car-repair right beside the store. I handed the gas-attendant a 50 and stepped into the cool air-conditioned shop.

I went to the back, where they kept the beer and liquor. Just a six-pack, that’s all I needed to keep this fucking headache off until Boston… hopefully. Sitting on the floor by the counter was a boy, around seventeen or eighteen maybe, a runaway for sure. He looked like he was treated very well, spoiled even, when he lived in a home with parents.

I payed for the beer, handing the greasy, rat-faced man behind the counter seven dollars, didn’t even ask for ID. Then, I plopped down beside the boy on the floor.

“Where you headed?” The boy’s head snapped up, hazel eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Nowhere fast, obviously.” he muttered, his eyes holding mine, as if he was daring me to blink. I laughed.

“I guess that’s your car in the shop, then.”

Blush rushed up his as he looked at the floor, losing our stupid little staring contest.

“I’m willing to give you a ride if you’re willing to ask.” I pushed a little. There was something about this kid, something about him being obviously homeless with his dirty clothes that tugged at my cold little heart.

He held out his hand, and I took it.

“Frank.”

“Gerard. Bags in the car?” He nodded and clambered to his feet. “You get them, my car’s right there.” I gestured out the window. I had to get going, who knew how close the cops were.

I got into the Trans and watched him come lumbering out of the shop, a bag in one hand, another thrown over his shoulder. I popped the trunk and waited. The poor Trans thudded and shook as he tossed his bags in. After he crawled into the passenger, I cranked the car and skidded out of the gas-station.

He wrinkled his nose as we were pulling out. “Damn, how much beer do you keep in here?”

“Not enough.” I snorted. He pulled out a cigarette and lit up, inhaling deeply, melting into his seat.

We drove for awhile in silence; we didn’t really have anything to say to each other. A few miles down, the traffic started slowing down, eventually stopping, and we saw cop lights. I sat there for a moment, watching a driver hand something to a cop out of the window of his fancy-ass car.

Then, it hit me what was happening.

“Fuck!” I looked around anxiously, there had to be some break in the fucking traffic, somewhere to pull off this cracked, shitty road and turn around.

“What? What’s going on?” Frank had bolted upright in his seat, looking for my source of panic.

“They’re doing a goddamn licence check.” I felt him staring at me as I threw the car in reverse. Check, just like in chess, but they didn’t have me, yet.

“What did you do?” I heard him say as I squeezed between a motorcycle and a Tahoe. “What the hell did you do? What are you running from?” he yelled at me, right in my ear.

“Shut the fuck up!” I bellowed as I headed the opposite direction, slowly, carefully.

He was still staring at me. “How bad was it?”