Roadrunner
Page 26
The man who chased me down is good-looking, young—maybe early to mid-twenties—and confused. He hadn’t anticipated that his two goals—catch me and remain anonymous—would conflict with each other, and now he must scramble for an exit strategy. As if to emphasize how alone we’re not, a young woman breaks off from her group of friends to offer me a hand getting up. I accept her offer and thank her, but maintain eye contact with the man as I rise to my feet. My assessment that he’s around my height was more accurate than I thought; he’s exactly my height, and as far as I can tell, his build matches mine, as well. As far as I can discern, he could be my stunt double.
I turn to the lady who helped me and thank her, then look back toward the man. His eyes dart about to gauge the onlookers’ engagement and reactions, then settle back on me.
I extend my hand. “Good run. Let’s do it again sometime.”
To my surprise, he takes my hand, shakes it, and pants a breathy laugh.
“Well played,” he says. And he disappears into the crowd, off in the other direction, shaking his head and laughing again.
Full to bursting with adrenaline, I nearly wet myself when my phone goes off, signaling a text from the mystery stalker.
“That was fun. But you need to disappear again, and fast.”
“When can I un-disappear?” ‘Reappear’ doesn’t seem to fit.
“Hard to say.”
“I guess I’ll disappear, then.”
So I do.
I don’t have the time to take the precautions I did when I was leaving Albuquerque, but I manage to disappear with characteristic thoroughness all the same. I stay on the more crowded streets until I put a comfortable few blocks behind me, heading north, then slip back out to the alleys and back roads that should probably instill in me a special, urban brand of fear.
Instead, I drink in the enigmatic darkness, my old life blood returned to me. For just a moment, I’m whisked back to Riverdell, to the streets rife with life heard but not seen, to the perpetually dewy smell and the crisp, verdant air of the Pacific Northwest. I suppose the Pacific West is close enough.
The flash lasts only for a second, though, and I’m again aware of my wading through the warm, humid evening of North Los Angeles.
I’m unsure of how long it takes, but at last, my journey through the city (as well as through time) spits me out in an outskirt, the less famous version of the city. I find a bus stop and sit down without bothering to check times or prices; I’ll wait here until morning if I have to.
All at once, the exhaustion hits me, the draining culmination of the past week’s events, the physical and emotional strain I’ve put on myself.
I’ve put on myself.
I suppose that this is as good a time as any to reignite the self-blame cannons.
I’ve spent an overwhelming majority of my life fighting my way through waves upon waves of unaddressed trauma and the resulting years of depression, anxiety, insecurity, and self-loathing. I buried my emotions underneath homework, textbooks, fake friendships, and, after my career picked up some traction, case after case after case.
I waded and bushwhacked through the swamp of my psyche, every step impeded by thick, murky water, tangling weeds, long grass and algae, every movement resisted. But I trekked onward, because, of the parts of me willing my survival, none was stronger than my dignified refusal to be a victim for any longer than I could manage.
In simpler terms, I will not be my dad’s bitch. His reign of terror ended when Trina and I moved out, counting ourselves lucky to escape.
For the first time, I find myself questioning the morality of having killed my father. He certainly deserved jail, at the least, but would I have been able to get him there? In the cases of my other kills, probably not, but with him … maybe. The evidence I obtained was acquired illegally, but I could have made a convincing case for happening upon it while visiting Dad. Both of us kept to ourselves about the nature of our relationship, and thus, a visit to my father’s place would have seemed entirely too natural. And if he came clean about the hostility between us, it would raise eyebrows as to why, which is certainly a can of worms my father would be averse to opening. I could have pinned him.
Instead, I killed him. I appointed myself as god of his life and I delivered judgment. And beyond that, his murder set the ball rolling on other events, including the brutalities inflicted upon Firenze, Anthony, and Stanley. My actions, by extension, brought that about, and no amount of ‘well, I wasn’t holding the knife’ can change that.
Another voice speaks up in my head. This one sounds like Todd: “Yes, maybe so, but with old Don Thorn and Jeremy Keroth out of the way, think of all of the kids who will get to retain their lives, their innocence.”
In this moment, I reflect on a letter I received from Maylynn Brotcher in March, a storm of misspellings and messy handwriting, thanking me, Todd, and Beth for saving her life last fall. That, more than anything, soothes me.
I don’t know whether I’ll ever see Beth again. I don’t know whether I’ll ever get the full chance to rebuild my relationship with my mother.
My entire body aches thinking about it, but I don’t know, for certain, whether I’ll ever see Todd again. Even more painful yet, will he even want to reunite?
The same voice as before: “Of course I will. I’ll be waiting.”
In the midst of raging tempests, we are often tempted to look for light instead of shelter. Now, my mission must be to allow shelter for myself and my loved ones, despite the mighty temptation to seek out the warmth and light instead. To ensure that there will be a mom, Beth, and Todd to reunite with at some point, I must leave them alone for now and prioritize shelter over familiarity and warmth.
As my bus rumbles northeast, the forefront of my mind is visited once again by that word.
Sacrifice.
About the Author
Michael Lilly was born in Provo, Utah. He has lived in that area his whole life, and splits his time between reading and writing books, cooking, hiking, martial arts, and being around his family. He has six siblings who, along with his parents, fostered and encouraged his interest in writing, and he is grateful for his closeness with them. Mike loves to travel and see new places, and carries a passion for other languages and cultures.
Follow the author:
Twitter: @AuthorMLilly
Facebook: @MikeLillyAuthor
Instagram: @mjlilly92