Radioman
#2 of Short Stories
A man on the run from a traumatic past begins hearing a voice on the radio, speaking directly to him. After a stop gone awry, he doesn't know who to trust.
Author: Sean Renning Editor: Lumiel Illustrator: Apron55
John, I
The television whispered through the linen scented air of his hotel room. This is how he spent most nights, staring blankly at the faintly illuminated walls until it was impossible to remain awake. It's a monotonous cycle that he's accepted. The rest of the world, just a few feet and a door away, filters its way inside, muffled only by the heavy curtains. You could sum up the last month with these few details. But tonight is different. There's an itch somewhere in his mind. It's not painful, but it's there, chipping away at his patience. Sometimes, it yells louder than the rest of the worldly noises. It transmits little pieces of a memory he can't recall. It reaches out in these far-few moments of blissful rest, trying to pull him back. It's a puzzle that doesn't quite fit together. He is disturbed more and more by it. The tension was building in his throat, a clammy hand beginning to close around his neck.
He paced back and forth across the room, a state of calm seemed farther than the coast in this quiet desert town. The static spoke his name, in its own abstract speech. John. John, yes the name his mother gave him, spoken in his mother's voice. The itch was winning now, reminding him of all that was left behind. The pressure was building, the seals were beginning to leak and the bleak walls started to take a grotesque shape, like a claw, reaching out.
That was it. He darted his hand out and shut the TV off. Now, only the hum of the air conditioner was left, constructing a canvas in the stale air, painted by the sound of cars driving by, drifting across the soundscape like a broad brush. The itch subsided. He stood, the soft noise of footsteps across the gruff carpet accompanying him to the light switch. Flick. The innocent decorations and aesthetic of the room brought him back into reality. Perhaps the light should remain on. Perhaps he should sleep. The drive today was long, and John had a lot of time to think. The pillows, though firm, wrapped around his head with a comforting hug. Eyelids closing, this is how his night ends.
He floated in a warm ocean, the current dragging him along. The joyful sun caressed his wet skin. This minimal paradise was a welcome break from the plastic and metal he was typically surrounded by. If only he could stay here forever. Thin clouds broke the shine every now and then, reminding him of the cold the world can bring. He reached a hand into the depths to make sure he's alone. The seagull's squawk crept in. The toll of the buoy's bell ate away at his peace. Growing nearer and nearer. It became abrasive. His eyes opened to be met by the timid morning light. The coastal birds now sing an alarming song. It sounded too human.
Knock knock. "Housekeeping!" the maid shouted. With that, John is thrust out of his world and into theirs. His ribs were sore. How long had he been at rest? Begrudgingly, he sat up and greeted the hotel staff. Oddly unalarmed by his groggy appearance. His stay was over. "Give me a moment to collect my things." he replied, and they reluctantly stepped away. Travelling light with only a backpack made these interactions quick. A zip and a shuffle and he departs.
Walking along the balcony, the mid morning sky greeted him with a familiar hue. The cool air, a nice break from the textured smell of the hotels inoffensive keep. The rattling of the maids' carts disappeared behind him. A faded silver hatchback sits before him, the steel steed that has taken him far from his home. It's the closest thing he has to a friend anymore. Stepping inside, the seat greeted him as it has for many miles. A turn of the coppery key and its boxy eyes light up, ready to face the world again.
Mother, I
She cradled her phone as though it were her child. In many ways, it was. The tears had passed and now all she could do was wait. Ms. Greenway had experienced two tragedies: the loss of her husband and the loss of her son. Two weeks is a long time to live without such beloved people. She could only hope for his return, wherever he may be. In her darkest hours, she would enter his room and lay on his bed, scraping for any last remnant of his warmth. She had to be strong, then.
As if to relive the talks they used to have, she would scroll through their texts, messages from ghosts. Since his disappearance, she kept a picture close. A picture of the family together on the beach. He looked so happy there. It brought what little joy was left out of her. She had helped her son paint this room when he was a but a kad. He wanted it to look like the seafloor. The clash of blues and greens may have been noisey, but they painted it--together.
She didn't spend a lot of time sodding around; no, that might drive her mad. She would take care of her old house in the passing time; it kept her thoughts at bay and provided her with a distraction. In this sense, she was almost always working. You could see it in the skin under her eyes and white at the root of her hair. Was this the best way to continue? Is there a best way? Hot water runs over her hands, the humid wafts of soapy air cloud her, and the clatter of steel and porcelain fill the room. Is it clean enough, yet?
A knock came from her front door. She set the frame aside and made her way to the living room. "Mariah! It's so good to see you!" Ms. Greenway welcomed her friend in. "It's good to see you, too. How've you been holding up?" Mariah asked. "You know it's been tough, being here all by myself. Oh, have a seat. Would you like some coffee?" Ms. Greenway made her way to the kitchen as Mariah sat down. She had much to say.
John, II
The tires hum along with a white ambience. The striking Utah landscape being the only stimulating facet of this hike. It crept in and out through the grey interior. It's nearly enough. His mind can only wander so much before the aches start to become more than a distraction. He hasn't checked his phone in weeks. This decision has its purpose, but the lonely highway has its influence. It sits there, within the confines of his backpack, just an arm's reach away. If you turn it on, they'll find you, you know? Leave it. His eyes darted between the road and the passenger seat. Just a peak can't hurt, right?
With an impatient hand, John unzipped the pocket and pulled out his phone. The start-up music played as he flipped it open, awakening it from its slumber. He's greeted with stark background, followed by a handful of notifications. Missed calls from his mother and unknown numbers. He looked through his text messages, glancing back and forth between the road and the screen.
Mom 9/26/10 2:12pm: Where did you go?
Mom 9/26/10 3:44pm: Please call me, I'm worried sick!
Mom 9/27/10 4:57am: Please come home.
Please come home. The screen appeared to be getting brighter. A rhythmic beeping leaked into his mind. The stale scent of the car now smelled sterile, like a waiting room. The itch was back. Alarmingly, he received an incoming call accompanied by a sharp ringtone. Surprised, he jumped in his seat, swerving the car, before powering down the phone once more. Surely his parents would understand. He just needed to make it to the shore.
More importantly, he needed to focus now. He guided his hand to the radio, pressing scan before placing his clammy hands back on the wheel. After a few snippets of audio chirped in and out of existence, the radio settled on a channel. It was playing homey country music, fitting for the wide open range for which he was traversing. The song was lowly and rough, a gritty aesthetic that surprised him. He was used to the shallower music of pop stars, but this spoke to him. The serenade of a worn-in voice carried his mind away to a beautiful scene. A sun dripping from the sky, down onto the water, it rippled its way to him. The warmth enveloped him, the scent of seaweed surrounded him, and wet sand weaved between his toes.
Wailing sirens, blaring from behind tore him from his fantasy. The taste of peace carried him away and his speedometer needle had climbed alarmingly high. Like returning from a headrush, he jabbed the brakes and steered to the right, scraping the guard rail. His heart slowed to a near stop, just as his car did. No, this couldn't happen! No, this is happening. The police cruiser stopped a distance behind him. The sweet song faded. Replaced by the gruffy voice of the host. "You're listening to 97.7fm, The Wave! Up next, Taylor Swift's hit new song, Dear John," he announced.
The strum of an acoustic guitar creeped into the car, along with panic. They found you, you idiot! It felt like several minutes until the officer stepped out of his car. With each step, the itch etched its way into his mind. A knocking like a door, a worried voice calling out, water running from his eyes. The officer pounded on the window. John lifted a shaky hand to the switch and reduced the shield between them. "Do you know why I pulled you over?" He asked. "Speeding?" John replied. "Thirty miles over. I'm gonna need your license, registration, and insurance." the officer said.
John reach for his glove box and handed the officer his documents. With that, he walked back to his car. Leaving John with his last moments of freedom. He looked across the sunset landscape, trembling with fear. "You're in trouble." The host chuckled. John shifted his attention to the radio. No, it not possible. He didn't just say that!
"Your ears aren't fooling you, kid. Listen, this situation's pretty bad, and I'm willing to bet that if he makes it back to your window, your dream is dead. You know what you've gotta do." The host said.
There was no time to inquire about what he was suggesting. John breathed in, feeling the sand under his feet one more time before reaching out to the door handle, unlatching it, but keeping it shut. Not today.
The officer reached the car and looked at John. He considered his face. He was young, his look was stern, but tired. His hand cautiously placed on the holster, he asked John to step out of the vehicle. John mumbled something, inaudible to the officer. He leaned forward just enough. Wham! The door burst outward, knocking the officer back. With a desperate leap, John had exited the seat and onto the staggered man. John wrapped his hands around the officer's neck, but he fought back. It pained him. His whole life he had never hurt anyone, but as the tears welled up in John's eyes, he knew that if he failed, this would be the end of him; this was a grueling duty. Desperately reaching for his belt, John stopped him with a firm kick to the groin. John now had him on the ground, squeezing the officer's throat, feeling the rapid pulse beneath his fingertips. He looked up at John with pleading eyes. His fleeting attempts at punding John's head and arms withered, his body falling limp, leaving him alone with the muffled chatter of the radio; that too dissolved into white noise. In a flash, his world went from chaotic to somber.
John lifted his hands and the whiplash set in. The itch, the knocking, the static--they disappeared. The cold evening air settled. The sun went down with him. John inhaled, so as to bring his consciousness back. He saw the body before him. He felt dread and disbelief. How could he have done this? Run. Get away from here, before they come for you again. Go! He ran to the cruiser and recovered his documents before frantically returning to his car and drove away, leaving the man behind on the lukewarm embrace of the asphalt.
Mother, II
Mariah droned on about the little issues in her life, or so it sounded. Ms. Greenway was a gentle person. She could sit with someone for hours just listening and be there afterwards to console them. She didn't have all the answers, but she was willing to try. They had a few laughs, shared a few memories, and emptied their coffee mugs. She couldn't remember the last time she genuinely had fun with someone; it all felt so distant, now. The day was coming to an end and they sadly had to wrap things up. They shared one last hug before parting ways, and Mariah went back to whatever life had in store for her. Ms. Greenway, herself, was feeling tired, and so she went to bed.
Another morning, another day. Compared to the hell John was going through, her cycle was blissful. A cozy bed, a warm shower, delicious breakfast, and a cat to feed. As she was filling the coffee machine with fresh grounds, Smore affectionately brushed up against her leg with a meow. Smore was a loving cat, but he could be loud at times, especially when he's hungry. She switched the machine on and fetched Smore his breakfast: canned tuna. He went crazy for it. Smore, himself, had been a bit mopey since John ran away. They were like best friends, but he adapted. The pot had finished brewing and she sat down, eventually joined my Smore. She chuckled as he paraded across the kitchen table. Troublemaker. Alas, it was the start of her work week. She cleaned up, grabbed her apron and nametag, and made her way to the door.
She opened the door and was greeted by an unexpected guest. "Are you Ms. Greenway?" he asked. "Yes. What is this about?" she replied. "My name is Sheriff Fisher. I was hoping you could give me some information about your son, uh, John Greenway." Fisher said. "What's going on, is he in trouble?" she asked. "I'm afraid so. Could we step somewhere private?" Fisher asked. "Of course, let me just call the store, tell 'em I'm gonna be late." She invited the officer in. She was relieved that he was still alive, but worried at what he'd done. A sheriff at the front door is never good news. Anxious was an understatement. After calling into work, she sat with the officer. It was going to be a long day.
John, III
"You're listening to 97.7fm, The Wave!" the host announced. "We have breaking news for you this morning, some lunatic strangled a Utah State Trooper on the side of Highway 50 late last evening. More info coming soon, stay tuned!" The host departed with a transition to his music.
The dirt pull away provided a place to stay for the night and rest, though rest was far from what he had been doing. His eyes traced along the interior plastic as his mind wandered and contemplated what had happened. John felt foul, his hands were alien to him. Hearing the host speak made it far more real than he could bare.
The stench of John's breath greeted him as he sighed. He allowed himself to close his eyes for once in what felt like hours. He must keep going, or this was all for nothing. Ignition on, he rolled forward. The radio quietly hummed the morning's soundtrack. As he gliding along the freeway, he wondered what the story was going to be. How would the public view his crime? Even more important: are they looking for him now? He didn't have to wait long before the radio host returned.
"Earlier last evening, an officer was murdered on the side of the highway. The suspect has been identified as John Greenway. The search is ongoing and details of the assailant have yet to be released, but we do have the suspects car. . ." The host went on to describe his vehicle and the pressure began to close in. There was a lot of road between John and his destination. He was worried and frustrated at this development. The radio momentarily picked up interference before resuming. "John, tell me, why did you do it? Were you scared or did you kill this father of two for sport? You pathetic bastard." John's eyes widened at what he just heard. He was angry, since he was the one who instructed him to act. "Oh, don't give me that look. This is the least of your punishment. . . Hello? Are you going to answer, John? Whatever. We'll be back with more after this commercial break!" And just like that, the host receded. "How would you like a vacation to the Bahamas? Be our lucky 11th caller now to enter the raffle for the grand prize! Call us at..." the advertisement gave him a shot to confront this mystery host.
John quickly picked up his phone. The startup felt like ages and his patience was wearing thin. Punching in the number and holding the phone to his ear, his heart raced. The station picked up. "Congratulations! You are our 11th caller. Please wait while we connect you to a representative." John sat eagerly, he made the window. The host picked up promptly.
"Hello! You're on the air, John." The host answered. John wasted no time is asking questions. "Cut the shit. Who are you? How are you spying on me? Goddamnit answer me!" The host paused. "I'm Don Hudson, the host of this radio station. What are you talking about?" This angered John. "Don't play innocent with me, fucker! I heard you react to my expression. You've gotta have someone watching me." Don hung up. John threw his phone to the side, frustrated, he was no closer to getting answers. He darted his head around, looking at the passing cars for cameras. Nothing. Just innocent drivers.
Crossing the stateline, he kept a close ear to the radio. Since his little conversation, Don didn't say a peep about the dead officer or John. You must've scared him off, good job! His mind wandered through the passing sage brush and over the Nevada mountains. For just this moment, he was free from the torment of yesterday. The massive clouds waved and separated above him. The hazy desert air wafted in through the window. The same clouds that once provided John with a spectacle, now grew darker. They wept across the landscape, a watery gate, barring the way to Baker. John rolled up his window as he passed under the giants.
The warning light came on as he entered Baker. Luckily, the gas station was but a few blocks away. He stopped next to the pump with a few squeaks from the brakes. The station itself looked miserable, one could see that it was on its last leg; the paint was chipping, the asphalt was cracking, and the exterior lights were flickering. It left John with an uneasy feeling. A groggy man was sitting just around the corner. His demeanor was unkempt and he seemed to be intently picking at something out of sight.
The radio station's intro played, what could it be now? "Psst, kid." Don said. "What?" John replied. His tired mind was not ready to deal with whatever it was he was about to play. "I know you see that man over there. Even in the safety of your car, he terrifies you." Don implied. John considered this assertion before speaking. "And why would I be scared of him?" Perhaps the man made John uneasy, but certainly not fearful. "Because, with a few missed steps, that could be you." Don said. That struck a nerve. "Just look at him, hiding in the one spot that the cameras aren't looking. He's dirty, and more importantly, he's alone." Don continued. John sighed. He didn't want to think about the homeless man, or the gas station, or the strange voice on the radio; he just wanted to sleep. "Considering your position, I think you ought to help him, yes? Do unto others and all that shit." Don suggested. This was very out of character, even in the little time he'd known him. "Only if it will shut you up." John reluctantly replied.
He shut off the car and set up the pump, letting it run while he approached the corner of the store. The man seemed unaware of his presence, perhaps hundreds of people stopped here and John was just another. John was going to be the first to acknowledge his existence, so it would seem. He stepped in front of him, finally being able to see what he was fidgeting with. It was a piece of wood, he was carving it into something, it's shape was vague in its current state. The man didn't look up, even for a second, just kept scraping and shaving.
John cleared his throat. "Hello?" This gave him pause. The man stared up at him with a lost expression. How far gone was he? "Here, eat something nice tonight." John reached out, pinching a twenty between his fingers. Strangely enough, he considered the bill with paranoid eyes before accepting it with a hesitant hand. "Who are you?" the man asked. "I'm John." "Who sent you?" An odd thing to ask a stranger. "No one, I just figured you could use some help." John responded. The man tossed the bill back at John. "I don't trust liars. You tell him I don't want his minions bothering me." he returned to his carving and kept muttering something. Don't listen to the radioman. He nearly didn't believe his own ears. No, he must've misunderstood his whispering. John picked the bill back up tried handing it back to him.
"He doesn't know I'm doing this." John said. He wasn't nearly as clever as he thought, but it worked. "Our secret?" the man asked. "Our secret." And with that, John returned to his car. There were plenty of hotel choices in this part of town, he needed only to choose. After cruising around for a bit, he parked outside one of the cheapest looking blocks. Finally, some rest.
Mother, III
"Strangled?" Ms. Greenway said, puzzled. "That doesn't sound like John at all. You must be mistaken." "I'm afraid not, miss. Look, the officer's recovering in the hospital. Luckily he made it back alive. I want to resolve this peacefully. To do that, I need your help." Fisher said.
"My son. . . John's not a violent person. He's just. . ." Ms. Greenway stood and swiped a bottle from the countertop and set it in front of Fisher. "He has insomnia. He forgot these when he ran away." She pointed to bottle before him. "He was getting better, but after the funeral he stopped all his routines. It was like he was wasn't there." Ms Greenway cried. "Last time he stopped taking these, he became delirious, thought there were people in the walls. Whatever he's done, it's not him! It's his damn illness!" She realized that she was shouting and withdrew, swiping an embarrassed finger under her eye.
"Hey, hey, I understand! I don't want anyone else to get hurt. Help me, help him. Do you have any idea where your son might have run to?" Fisher asked. Ms. Greenway collected herself and sat back down. "You said he was heading west on fifty?" "Correct." He replied.
She knew where he was going, but she didn't trust the police to understand her son. Was lying to the police really the best option? John was all she had left, she couldn't risk his safety. Not now. Not ever.
"That's strange." she lied. "You sure?" Fisher pressed. This was it. She had to be committed. She looked him dead in the eye. "Yes."
John, IV
The hotel clerk absentmindedly checked John in, to his surprise. This eased his nerves; his paranoia was beginning to eat away at his mind. The walk to room seventeen was damp and cold--the rainfall hardly letting up. He swiped his card and was greeted by another stale room. Perfect. He tossed his backpack on the bed and turned on the nightstand radio before hopping in the shower. The hot water was a pleasant relief. He felt safe in here, the rest of the world could disappear and it would mean nothing in the steamy embrace.
He felt fresh--renewed.. Neatly folding his towel, he made his way to bed and plopped down. He closed his eyes and listened to the cozy music streaming through the air. Don cleared his throat, breaking through the melody. "Now that you're done washing washing yourself of filth, how about we have a nice discussion?" John's eyes shot open. Nope. This was not the time. His interference was no longer scary to him, it was more of a nuisance. "I know you're awake." Don continued. "What do you want?" John replied. "Don't be so hostile. Since it's just the two of us, let's talk about yesterday. Why'd you do it?" Don asked. "Why the fuck should I indulge you?" John replied. "Because I'm the only one who'll listen." he said.
It was becoming clear that Don wasn't going away until he satisfied his curiosity. However, if he wanted information, he'd have to reciprocate. "You first. How come no one else can hear you talk? Aren't you on the air?" John asked. "I'm speaking on a separate channel." he replied. "Uh huh, right. I don't know why you're making me out to be the big bad wolf, you told me to do it! I regret it more than anything. I see him every time I blink." John answered. Don began to dig under his skin. "I didn't tell you to kill him. You could've easily incapacitated the poor guy. Don't try to pin your guilt on me. This was all you." "Fuck off, I have nothing more to say to you, Don." "Murderer. Murderer. . ." Don continued to chant this word, becoming more and more aggravated. "Shut the fuck up!" He wouldn't quit. John had enough. He grabbed the radio and pulled it form the wall. Tossing across the floor, it split into pieces, much to his satisfaction.
Don's pestering had worked. He was deeply unsettled--ripped from his peaceful night. How could he be forgiven? Even he was upset with himself. This isn't me. That thought stuck with him for the rest of the dreary evening.
The salty air rushed by him--legs dangling off the jagged cliffside. He watched the waves crash and wither against the stony shore. The sunlight was fading; a storm was rolling in. He saw a distant boathouse shake and tremble before the sea. He stood and ran for it. The ensuing wind fighting him every step of the way. He rushed through the doorway. No one was inside. He filtered through the rooms, frantically looking. Something was out upon the pier. Is that? No. . . His father was standing on the quivering structure. John shouted at him, begging him to come inside. The clouds above loomed over the shore, bringing the tide with it. John's father reached out as the ocean swept him under. His own breathe disappearing with it. John fought and struggled. This must be a nightmare; he must wake up.
He jolted awake, drawing in a refreshing breath. It seems fate is following him, even into his sleep. It was still dark outside, but he wasn't going to rest anytime soon. He picked up the remote and flipped through the channels; anything to keep his mind at bay. For a time, this was working. He stopped at a news channel. To John's horror, they were displaying his face and vehicle. His heart raced. Thump, thump, thump. Footsteps thundered above. They're coming for you, run! He scrambled for his things and threw the door open, bolting down the hallway, out to his car. As he sped off, he began to wonder if anywhere was safe, even his own paradise.
Mother, IV
After Fisher left, she poured herself a glass of water and sat back down. Did I just lie to a cop? The pressure was building in her chest, for sure. Smore sensed her unease and leapt up on her lap, purring. She smiled at him. Perhaps everything would be okay. There's nothing she could do here. She collected herself once more and got into her car.
The store was decently busy for a Monday. Her job was easy enough, making sure all the front end staff were where they needed to be. She spent most of her time at the customer service desk. Her job didn't give her much pleasure, but it did give her something to do. Ms. Greenway didn't want to just sit at home and wither, no, she needed to apply herself to something. She got along with everyone she met, and given her friendly nature, they'd be none the wiser about what was happening. A couple of her employees noticed her stress, though, especially considering how late she was.
When she received a call from John during her shift, they weren't surprised to see her run off. It was a shock to her, that he would reach out like this. She figured he might lose himself, but he was holding on. He made it far--so far that she had no time to waste. She rushed home, changed clothes, grabbed the small orange bottle, and fed Smore one more time before getting on the freeway to Nevada. She said goodbye to the Colorado landscape, not knowing when she'd return. She did worry for Smore; the poor cat might get lonely.
The highways were boring enough, she had no idea how John could have bared this trip. It had just occurred to her, should she have called in his whereabouts? It would have given her a way out of her lie, but she still didn't trust their judgement alone. But if I was there with him. . . She flipped open her phone.
"Hey, Mariah! Listen, I'm going to be out of town for a couple days, can you check in on Smore every now and then? Okay, thanks! Oh, I'm just visiting family."
John, V
"Look who's back." Don's smug voice greeted him after he switched on the radio. John felt alone during his midnight run across the highway and oddly enough, it was welcome. "Your last episode got me thinking. So, suppose you make it to the coast before the law catches you. What then? Are you going to kick your feet up and live on what little cash you have left? I mean, initially, it's gonna be relaxing, but that must get awfully boring after a while. What's your plan?" Don asked. John chewed on this question for a moment. "I'll figure it out when I get there." Don was not satisfied with this answer. "Perhaps the coast is just the farthest destination you and your car can go. So, I suppose the more important question is, what are you running away from? The itch isn't telling you, is it? It's just feeding you small snippets, teasing you with the truth, but never giving it to you. I know what it's hiding, do you wanna know what it is, John?"
John dreaded whatever this man was about to say. Whatever it was, he didn't want to remember. It would bring too much pain with it. He'd rather it remain an itch than become a deep gash. "He's never coming back. It saddens you. It cripples you. The thought makes you a weaker man, and barely one, at that." Don proded. "Don't fucking say it. Don't you dare." John warned. "Your d-" John switched off the radio. He'd prefer silence over this torment.
John passed into Reno, his stomach rumbling. He needed to stop for food and he began filtering through the streets. The city was vast enough to get lost in., but he eventually found a welcoming sign. He pulled into the grocery store parking lot. Okay, grab some food and a map, then get out. Easy enough. He stepped out into the hot sun. The store seemed fairly busy, evident by the sea of cars that greeted him. The automatic doors welcomed him into the civilized establishment. He hadn't been so close to so many people in a while. He hoped he could get lost in the crowd and slip by without incident.
Grabbing a basket, he began his search. John patrolled the aisles for snack food and sugary drinks--something to keep him up for his final freeway sprint to the ocean. He had amassed a sizable amount of food. Now, to find the map. He made his way to the stationery section, the most likely place to find one. As his eyes scanned the shelves, an unnerving announcement intruded from above.
"You're listening to 97.7fm, The Wave!" John became anxious, this was not good. He snatched a map from the shelf and made his way toward the checkout lanes. "Aw, come on, you didn't think it would be that easy to get rid of me, did you?" Don proclaimed. John hurried his pace. "Attention shoppers, there is a murderer amongst you, and his name is John. He's ferrying around a basket with a map in it. Beware!" he announced. John felt chills run down his spine. Everywhere he looked there were heads turning, all staring at him, crowding around him, trapping him in claustrophobic circles. His breathing hastened. Don was laughing over the PA. "Have fun, kid!" In a maddened plea, John shouted back. "Leave me alone!" John ran straight for the exit, basket in hand. He fled the parking lot, unsure if he was being followed.
After a several blocks were between him and the store, he pulled into a secluded alleyway. Shutting off his engine, he began to weep. How could this have gone so wrong? He can't escape this nagging radioman. It's all his fault. If it weren't for him, you'd be at freedom's doorstep! He needed comfort, now more than ever. He turned on his phone, cycling through the contacts until he found "Mom." He called the number, and anxiously waited. You left her in the dark, why would she ever want to talk to you again? She answered.
"John? John, is that you? Where are you?" she asked. John paused for a moment. Until now, he did realize how much he missed her. "Yeah, it's me. I'm in Reno right now." "Reno? Why are you all the way out there? The police came to my door asking for you. Are you okay?" she pleaded. This question made it all real. "Ma, it's complicated. I just need to see you." he cried. "Look, there's a diner on the corner of. . . " he continued to give his mother directions. "Please." "Of course, I'll be there as soon as I can. Are you safe, honey?" she replied. "For now, yes. I found a place to hide." he answered.
They exchanged goodbyes and the call ended. John didn't know how long he'd be waiting, but this was as good a place as any to camp up in for the time being. His stomach rumbled, he couldn't remember the last time he ate. John reached back to grab some food before leaning back and dozing off with the sunset.
The sun greeted the city with its orange haze and painted the buildings and hills with a pink blanket. John blinked himself awake, freezing and sore. If his mother had left last night, she should make it here soon. He left his car and seeked out a bathroom--the least he could to was wash his face. The rest of the morning was spent pacing around the alley, waiting for her to call. His hands were cold and shaking.
The phone vibrated awake; his mother had arrived. John wondered if this was such a good idea. It had been nearly a month since he last saw her, and so much had happened. His reasons for keeping her in the dark hadn't changed. He took a deep breath and continued towards the restaurant. The tension was high in the busy morning street. This was a huge risk, revealing himself in the open like this. Luckily, the entrance was but a block away.
His arrival was marked by the tame toll of a bell. The diner was reasonably seated, the scent of coffee was rich in the air. The kitchen staff was fast at work, shuffling about the cramped space, serving up food as quickly as the orders came in. A young and friendly woman greeted him as she passed by, a platter of dishes level with her shoulder. The sound of clattering forks, plates, and other instruments interrupting the stream of music coming from the countertop radio. He scanned the crowd, searching for his mother. There she was, alone at her table, nursing a mug of tea. Her face was tired and she was staring vaguely out the window. The light revealed the silver beginning to spread through her brown hair. John couldn't imagine the stress he'd put her through. Did he even deserve to speak with her again?
The chaotic sounds of the restaurant faded away as the itch returned. The drone of a sermon was humming along, the air smelled of wet asphalt. The skin under his eyes felt wet. The sweet songs of the radio once again replaced by abrasive static. He was slipping again, and in the worst of places. His mother's head turned and she jumped from her chair. John's absent expression was off-putting, but she approached, greeting him with a firm hug. Snap. The itch disappeared. "John! It's so good to see you again! Come, have a seat." She lead him to her table. The waitress set a menu down as she passed along. John settled into his seat, smiling for once in what felt like weeks.
His own tired state must have been apparent, as his mother became concerned. "You look awful. Where have you been staying recently?" she asked. "In hotel rooms or my car. Mostly my car." he reluctantly admitted. She wore a sympathetic look, taking hold of his hand. "Look, I know things weren't easy when your father died, but you shouldn't have run off. You scared me half to death!" she said. John was visibly shocked by what she'd said. "He's dead?!" he blurted. His heart was pounding as her solemn look answered all his questions. "Have you forgotten? You must be worse off than we thought." she said. "Look, it doesn't matter what happened. I came here to help. You forgot your medication when you left." she reached into her purse and removed a orange capsule, placing it between them. "Please, come home with me, everything will be okay." John considered the container before him. John began to calm down. "How's Smore doing?" "He misses you, but he's doing well." she replied. John smiled in response. His thoughts interrupted by a very unwelcome introduction.
"This is 97.7fm, The Wave! John, what a surprise! Looks like you're having a civil chat with the enemy." Don's voice carried over hustle and bustle. John turned his attention over his mother's shoulder to the radio. "Don't take those pills, they're poison. She's working with the cops, you've gotta get out of there now!" Don shouted. John's pulse quickened. He glanced worryingly between the radio and is mother, puzzling the situation out. She took notice. "John, what are you looking at?" she said. "Listen to me, John! You don't have much time. They're right around the corner, waiting for you to slip." Don interrupted "Sweety, calm down. What's wrong?" she asked. John was indifferent to her questions. All he saw were strangers surrounding him. He shot up out of his seat, staggering. His mother matched his pace, grabbing onto him. "Please, whatever you're hearing it's not real!" she pleaded. John became defensive--saying goodbye to his mother in the only way that seemed appropriate. He shoved her back, as hard as he could. She collapsed on the floor, staring back at him with terrified, betrayed eyes. John stared at the radio.
"Get the fuck away!" he yelled. Turning around, he bolted to the door. A police cruiser slowly crawled along the street, stopping at the light. He stopped in his track and bolted the long way back to his car. This only piqued the officer's suspicion. He waited for a window, and pulled forward, attempting to follow him.
John shoved past the passersby's on the sidewalk, the air was beginning to taste like poison, there were eyes in the walls and ears to the ground. Everyone's head on a swivel, constantly tracking him. All looking at him; him the freak, him the enemy. He made his way around the block before reaching the alleyway. John opened the door and sped away, seemingly avoiding capture. As the buildings shrunk in his rearview mirror, a sinking feeling filled him--tears streaming from his eyes.
Mother, V
She picked herself up off the floor. He was in a worse state than she thought. She sat back down at her table, watching him flee and disappear into the streets. She tapped the bottle on the countertop. The other customers were beginning to stare, asking if she was okay. Physically, yes. But emotionally. . . Her own son had pushed her away. She looked over her shoulder, trying to puzzle out what he was staring at. There were a few people, a radio, and the waitress. The radio. Why would he be scared of the radio? She sighed and stood, maybe this was a mistake. Perhaps he caught onto her. She wholeheartedly believed she could talk him down, but she failed. She picked up her purse and left the diner.
Ms. Greenway found a hotel to stay in for the night. She had been driving for several hours just to get here, no way she could do it again in the same day. She sat on the edge of her bed and and punched Fisher's number in.
"Sheriff Fisher?" she said. "Hello, Ms. Greenway. What can I do for you?" Fisher asked. "I know where he's going." she reluctantly said. Fisher paused for a moment. "Did he contact you?" "Yeah. Yeah, he's not doing well. He's heading for the west coast. Just. . . please bring him home." Ms. Greenway waited for the call to end before sobbing. She hoped they could succeed where she failed.
John, VI
Welcome to California. Home stretch. His flight from Nevada was hardly pleasant. The world was closing in on him and there were enemies on every front. Much to his pleasure, the nagging of the itch had disappeared; the truth it was trying to remind him of having been brought to light. His father dead, his mother conspiring against him, and a man on the radio with all the knowledge and no poise. He was surprisingly absent after the diner incident. John had left the radio on 97.7 since then, hoping for an explanation of any sort. But Don was only addressing his broad audience.
Rolling hills and the sparse forests covering them greeted John to their territory. After hundreds of miles of desert, this place was a xanadu, even if the busy freeway begged to differ. He'd been driving for so long, he could practically operate on autopilot as he took in the scenery. It seemed to be moments like this when Don struck. His voice finally emerging from the monotony of the top forty.
"Hey, kid. Looks like shit hit the fan. I'm sorry you had to do that, but you were moments away from the end. I couldn't allow that to happen." he spoke. "Care to explain why you went from my antagonizer to my guardian angel in a snap, Don?" he replied. "I may give you shit, kid, but I don't want to see you get hurt." Don said. "Oh, so that's all it is, you're giving me shit? Fuck that. You were actively trying to sabotage my every move." John responded angrily. That shut him up.
John's palms clenched the steering wheel tightly. He didn't know how much longer he'd be able to speak with him, so he needed to choose his words carefully. "How did you know the cops were there? Aren't you couped up in some radio station?" John asked. "Are you sure you wanna know the answer to that?" Don retorted. "Why the would I ask you otherwise?" John responded. "Alright, look, I had someone tail you. Ever since that little stunt of yours back in Utah. He's been feeding me info on you" Don explained. John contemplated this. It didn't fit together at all. After he'd fled the scene, there was no one around him. Perhaps everything that came out of this man's mouth was a slimy lie. Perhaps he should tune him out; forever. "Don't get any funny ideas. I can help you. You're on your way to the coast, right? I can meet you there. I'll show you that you can trust me." Don said. "No tricks?" he asked. "No tricks." Don answered.
Don continued to give him directions to a coastal lookout. John maintained his skepticism, but considering his actions, he doubted that he was with the police. Though, perhaps, he was part of something far worse. John would find out--in time. The sun set below the California mountains, their monumental shadows draping the valley below in a cool blanket. John was too restless to stop and so he pushed forth, mere hours from his destination.
Mother, VI
Her drive home was somber. Most of the scenery was wasted on her absent stare. Smore was happy to see her again, headbutting her hand as she reached down. She invited Mariah over to keep her company, but she was busy with her own tasks. Ms. Greenway removed a bottle of wine from the rack and picked up a glass. She sat in her recliner, a full cup on one hand. Smore did his best to cheer her up, but in the end, she wanted to drink her night away. One glass turned into two, and soon enough she was giggling at everything that passed her mind.
Eventually, she fell asleep to an action-drama on the television. Smore would join her, but he instead sat on the window sill, waiting for someone to show up. To the cat's disappointment, not even the leaves were passing by. He curled up on his drunken mother's lap.
John, VII
His headlights painted the gravel pull-out before him. The night sky writhed and twinkled above. The ocean air was strikingly cold. The waves below the cliffside gently lapped at the rocky wall. He stepped out and stretched, taking in the fresh scent. John walked over to the edge and sat, admiring the spectacle he traveled so far to behold. The purple hue of twilight began to envelope the sky. Here, he finally felt at peace. All the woes of yesterday were sinking below the surface. He took this time to consider where he should go from here. Perhaps get a tent and live along the beach. Perhaps work in one of the coastal towns. The possibilities were out there.
The radio jumped to life behind him. "John? John, are you there?" Don spoke. Startled by this, he jolted up and sprinted back to his car. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm here." John said. "Took me longer than anticipated, but I made it." he said. John took pause at this. Standing up from his car and scanning his surroundings. "What are you talking about? No one's here!" he replied. Don remained silent, perhaps he realized his error. Is Don even real? Did I make all of this up? Is it all in my head? He leaned back, feeling defeated. Everything John had done sank in. You're a monster. He couldn't take it anymore. "You're not real. No, no, no. You're not real!" John shouted. "Get ahold of yourself!" Don said. "Fuck off!" he responded. "All the horrible shit I did, all the pestering, was all because of you!" John paused. "I'm gonna end this, now." John reached for the power knob before Don cried out. "No, wait! Wait! Please don't do this!" he pleaded. "If. . . if you die, then I die. I can't let that happen." Don's arrogance was insulting, but he wasn't deterred. John pulled a knife from his backpack and pried the radio panel from the console in a jagged, violent manner. As he stood from the car, a staggering headache set in. However, it only delayed the inevitable. John limped to the cliff's edge, cocking his fist back and pitching the panel far into the ocean. Good riddance.
John remained there, shaking and in pain. He considered his own fate, weighed his guilt, and shifted blame. What would his mother think of all this. Surely, she knew. After what he did, could she still love him? With a heavy exhale, John stood. The warm California sunrise cast his shadow out among the salt water below. Perhaps, that was where he really belonged. He closed his eyes--he knew what he must do, now.
Mother, VII
Ms. Greenway returned to her routines. Her work kept her mind at bay, for the most part. Her talks with Mariah had helped. She didn't feel alone in this, anymore. Mariah was like an aunt to John, so this was just as painful for her. She hadn't heard anything from the police since Monday. She was beginning to give up hope. The spring rainfall rolled in and out of her sleepy Colorado town, poetically setting the mood. Smore seemed to catch on to her despair and did his best to be near her.
She was roped into a late-night shift at the store. At this point, it didn't bother her. If that's where she was needed, that's where she would be. Her sense of duty was all that was keeping her together. She said goodbye to her employees and locked up the doors when her phone went off.
"Hello?' she answered. "Ms. Greenway? This is Sheriff Fisher. We found John."