24. Cin
Cin
Cars are still zooming by when I crack my eyes open, the ground is hard and I’m pretty sure a tree root became my pillow. My face hurts, my sides throb, but I’m okay from what I can tell. My ankle is twisted and purple, and my stomach decides now is the time to empty itself.
Hot bile bursts from my body, and tears leak out of my eyes. The salty fluid stings the cuts on my face, and the next round of vomit comes out of both my nose and mouth in its urgency to escape my stomach. It fucking burns. Wiping my mouth and nose on my shirt, I give myself a moment to get it together. Forcing deep breaths so that the sickness eases.
I listen for movement from any direction, but I can’t remember where I came from, and it’s getting darker now. The time on the cell phone I snatched says seven PM, and the date is a day after I was taken from the restaurant bathroom.
Dialing my mothers number once more, I lift the phone to my ear, eyes watering from the scream in my muscles. Memories threaten to turn my stomach again, what little I have in it tries to crawl its way up my throat.
I have to take a long pause not to throw up all over again.
Mama’s voice is frantic on the other end when I don’t answer her immediately. She’s screaming at someone to do their damn job, and still trying to get me to speak.
When I feel confident enough that I’m not going to puke my guts up I say, “I’m okay.”
I’m lying.
I’m far from okay, I killed a guy. Murdered him with my shoe!
I’m so not fine. Images of his brain matter and broken skull are pinned in my head. Like a fucking social media badge I didn’t want, but it’s there so everyone knows.
“Cin, have you moved since the last time we spoke?” Mama asks through the phone.
I shake my head, but forget she’s not here. She can’t see me. Which is probably a good thing. I don’t think I want to see myself right now.
With everything that fucking hurts, I can only imagine how bad it looks . Everything always looks worse than it is when you’re injured.
“I don’t think so,” I tell her. My voice is hoarse and my throat feels like the dead guy's hands never left. My jaw pulls tight as I try to work it open and closed. It hurts, and I want to cry.
I’m in pain.
I killed someone.
I’m lost with no idea where I am, and no way to help anyone get to me.
It’s too much, and I just want it to be over.
“Baby, we’re coming,” she whispers, and I know it’s because she’s trying not to cry. “I swear, I’ll find you.”
“There’s not much battery left, I’m gonna try and walk through the trees…” I know I need to find something to help her locate me, obviously the cell phone isn’t traceable, “find a mile marker, maybe a street sign.”
“Muffin,” her voice cracks, and I can’t help my own tears from choking me up as they burn my nose and fall down my cheeks. “Be safe, and watch yourself, hide if you have to, I will find you.”
“I love you,” I tell her, just in case… I don’t think I’m going to die out here. The body can do some incredible things to keep itself alive. I’m more worried about the other guy, and when he’ll come for me. If they wanted me bad enough to almost kill me to keep me… they won’t stop looking.
Honestly, I can’t believe that the first guy hasn’t already found me. Unless those paint cans killed him. Just the thought makes me queasy because then I’ll have killed not one, but two people today.
Two lives that I took.
I don’t think I can handle being a murderer twice, even if it was for my own protection.
“I love you too, Cin, make sure to save that battery so you can keep in contact.”
It’s the last thing she says before I hang up. Getting to my feet is a challenge. My entire body is screaming at me, and breathing? Forget it. I can hardly get a breath in before feeling like my ribs are caving into my lungs.
Steadying myself against the tree that kept me safe when I passed out, I take a moment to try and block out the pain; knowing I need to find something, somewhere to hide out.
The trees provide the perfect coverage as I follow the road, not close enough people can see me, but close enough that through the smaller gaps, I can see the gray asphalt of the highway.
A clearing appears not far ahead through the trees and I pause, trying and failing to see further without actually getting too close.
Running out of options, and daylight, I carefully walk to the edge of the trees and almost weep. There, a field away, is a gas station; it’s massive with bays for eighteen-wheeler trucks and a separate area for regular vehicles to gas up.
Looking around, I decide that if the men who took me are going to come get me, I’m going to make the scene of my fucking life, in public. They might hesitate to take a girl who isn’t cooperating. Or at least that’s what I’m banking everything on.
As fast as I can, I run through the field, trying to avoid random holes in the ground. I probably look insane running—or rather hobbling, considering my ankle is purple—at full speed with blood coating my boot and leg, possibly my face, and bruises wrapped around my neck.
I don’t care as long as I can find out where I am and call my mom.
The only two things I need to survive.
When my feet hit the asphalt, I double over, gasping for air, and then make my way to the entrance of the gas station. The clerk immediately looks up when I enter. I’m swaying on my feet from the pain and lack of energy. Fighting for your life will do that to you. My voice is still rough from screaming, and the bruises I know have to be wrapped around my throat.
“Are you alright, miss?” The young guy behind the counter asks, eyeing me like he doesn’t know what the hell to do with me.
“Where…” I’m cut off by a fit of coughing, and the coppery taste of blood hits the back of my tongue.
“The state line, do I need to call the law? An ambulance?” This poor guy, his eyes are as big as saucers, and the patrons inside aren’t much better.
“Can I use your phone?” I ask, my voice breaking a little.
He nods, face still twisted in a shocked stupor. A patron places a bottle of water on the counter next to where the guy told me to wait.
Glancing up, I see it’s a big guy, with tattoos down his arms and a mean face to match. His hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and he has a bandana around his head.
“Go on,” he orders, eyes carefully watching the door.
“Thank you,” I gather his kindness and wear it like a shield. Whoever took me won’t be getting close to me right now. Not with this tattooed man standing like a wall between me and the door.
Calling Mama and giving her my location feels like a warm shaft of sunlight beaming down on me, and I close my eyes. Letting myself enjoy the coolness of the water as I crack it open and down it in a few gulps.
“I don’t know what kinda trouble you’re in, miss, but you won’t be bothered here.”
The young clerk says, offering me a bag of chips and one of the hot dogs they have rotating in a glass case.
I nod, not trusting my voice not to crap out again, and the pitying look he gives me tells me everything I need to know about how I must look.
He offers me a blanket, and a comfy chair behind the register. Not one patron asks who I am, or what I’m doing here. They all glance to where the tattooed guy stands guarding the way behind the counter and go about their business.
“Names Ritchie,” the big guy with tattoos says, “he’s Corbin.”
The counter guy gives me a small smile, his cheeks turning pink.
“For what it’s worth, you’re safe here,” he says nodding his head toward a door marked employees only, “if you want to clean up, I can get you some clean towels.”
Shaking my head softly, I stay firmly rooted in my seat. Mama is on her way, she won’t leave me here long, and if my instincts are right she’ll be here soon. I can feel my body wanting to shut down again, adrenaline from finding a safer spot to hide winding down.
I’m just starting to nod off when the front doors burst open and a man I don’t recognize shouts my mother’s name. He’s tall, just as big as Ritchie, and mean looking.
His dark hair is closely cropped to his head, and his skin is wrinkled on his forehead. He moves toward where I’m sitting, but Ritchie simply steps in his way. The man growls, but Ritchie doesn’t move.
“Cin,” the man’s face softens, and my mother flies in, hair disheveled, in a t-shirt and jeans.
“Cin!” She shouts, and Ritchie allows her past him. She launches herself at me, wrapping her arms around my side causing me to cry out in pain. She’s crying now, tears slipping down her cheeks as she whispers, “thank God, my baby.”
She’s looking at me now, eyes roaming over my face, motherly noisees of protest and anguish leave her lips as she tries to prod without hurting me.
I’m shaking, the relief at being found, and the terror of having to tell her I killed someone.
If the police find the body…