Chapter 6
Holden
My eye twitches with rage. I got the points, hit the target, but she lives, and I do not feel complete.
I don’t know how to properly handle this without losing my goddamn mind.
Do I crash into other people one after another and another until I feel fucking satisfied?
A glint of light draws my attention to the dent left behind by that annoying fucking girl and I let the rage out.
“It’s all your fault! Why did I let you talk me into it? ”
My brain is malfunctioning. Eyes are lost in a heavy haze.
Yet my body remains on autopilot, driving us to where we need to be.
Which is yet to be determined by my mind.
Her smart-ass mouth, the fact that she wouldn’t stay down and her complete disregard for other people’s property has never made me feel as irate as I do now.
It’s because she talked back. I hate when they talk back.
When they think they can make me feel bad.
It never fucking works. Will they never learn?
It only sends me into a further tailspin of destruction.
This evening's entertainment, at my expense, is because of my impromptu urges, yes, but primarily due to the manipulation tactics courtesy of Mr. fucking Carlisle.
He felt my weak moment, tasted it, and pounced on me like a fucking hyena out for blood.
A savage beast, no mercy or cognitive consequences registered.
Smelling the sweet crimson, he jumped on it.
Completely irrational behavior, which I allowed to influence me.
“Fuck off!” I shout as I slam the palm of my hand against the leather wheel once more. I am walking a fine line now, a tightrope. Why did I keep him?
Regret. Immense regret, attempts to rattle me next, but I stop it.
Regret is only for the fools who cannot own their shit.
I own mine. I know who I am and what I do.
It comes with risk that I cannot be bothered dwelling on or spending time thinking about.
If I worried or feared the risk, I would make a mistake, an error, and feel regret as my brain overanalyzes each step and where it all went wrong.
Like right now, it all started because I needed to keep him.
Something that I own. I needed to keep him because he seemed like a fun time.
Then, when I obtained his signature bucket hat, I knew once I fit the powder blue on top of his purple skinned head that it was meant to be.
Fuck. But I didn’t need to listen to him.
“It’s all my fault.”
“Very good. Thank you for acknowledging that,” Mr. Carlisle proudly responds. Asshole. Gloating is also very unattractive to me.
“But you didn’t need to bait me. You played on my high from almost killing you and baited me.
Reminded me of the points I so desperately needed.
I craved them. It had been so long since I played with pedestrians.
” The high attempts to return with my eyes further drooping in delight, but I push it down.
It is not the fucking time because my car looks like it’s been dented by a tiny human disguised as a boulder rock.
“You could feel incredibly satisfied, if you hit just one more?”
Reaching to the dial, my fingers grip it tightly as they crank the background music louder.
I need him to stop talking. Screaming through my speakers, the hands on the clock embedded within the dashboard vibrate with each tick.
The sound of the kick drum penetrates. The bass is just as prominent alongside the chords flowing from the electric guitar.
I can feel it in my bones. The singer croons sweet screams. My heart joins, beating to the rhythm.
The words hit perfectly. ‘My blood is gasoline.’ And I scream.
Not of fear, but of anger. The song provokes the demons that want to dance and test me, tease me, while I am here reminding them who is fucking in charge.
Vivid colors of green, red, and yellow blur together on either side of me.
I have one speed, and it’s go. I will not allow the temptation to linger; he cannot persuade me again.
I was fine before him. I will be fine with and without him.
Taking sharp turns on narrow city streets, the car wheels squeal against the pavement.
I am about to blow a red light next, but a car pops out in the middle of the intersection, bringing me to an abrupt stop.
My eyes react to the inconvenience by twitching.
Slamming on the brakes, my seat belt locks, keeping me from jolting forward, but I cannot say the same about Mr. Carlisle, whose head is heavy, and slams against the dash and remains there.
I mumble under my breath as the music still blasts, pounding against my eardrums. “Fucking deserved it.”
We sit at the painted white start line for an eternity. The car in the intersection remains as it awaits so many precious points to cross before turning.
“Come on, creep up. Encourage them to play the game too,” Mr. Carlisle, who sadly isn’t unconscious from the head collision, toys.
My skin itches, waiting, as the dead man next to me continues to taunt.
I refuse to adjust his body, the itch of waiting outweighing my compassion for this man. He can think about what he’s done.
Relief floods me, green means go, and we are back on the move, tearing up the midnight streets of Manhattan.
The song stops then repeats once more, blocking out the passing car horns and emergency sirens.
With my body relaxing into my seat, I let out a deep, pent-up sigh.
The hold on my steering wheel follows suit as the anger begins to die.
Only because I have come to the conclusion that what must be done shall happen tonight.
The mind already knew, as we are well on our way.
We are taking a journey to the Hudson docks, my third home away from home.
Mr. Carlisle remained silent, resting against the dash for the rest of the long drive.
It was for the best. The less he saw, the less he would know, and I couldn’t have him trying to talk his way out of this.
Or talking me into anything else except for this.
Externally, I feel strong, but internally, his pleas or sweet talking may have worked even if they didn’t when I first ended his life.
It’s still too soon to tell after my failed attempt to spontaneously kill that girl.
My brain is still unsettled and this could, should, put it to rest.
With my lights off, the music paused, my speed slowed to the recommended limit, I take turns steadily to not draw suspicion from anyone who may see me.
I want to be unmemorable. Perhaps having douche canoe still etched into my car could impede that attempt, but I am hoping only the drunk and high see us and not care enough to remember.
It would be even better if the dim streetlights bouncing off the steel pan drum embedded in my hood possibly blinds them, washing all memories away. A man can dream, can’t he?
The docks are usually quiet at this time of night, three hours before dawn. It’s the best time to come. The drunks are making their way home as the rest of the city sleeps. And for those who don’t rest, they have seen crazier shit under the night's bright stars.
My warehouse is a few miles away, making it nearly impossible to link the two locations back to me.
Like the warehouse, I registered the boat and the boat slip under an alias.
When the yearly fee is due at the dock, I pay off a random person to go to the office to pay the good people.
Resulting in me never being seen. I hide in the darkness of night, memorize camera angles, avoiding them at all costs.
A maze, a game that I can outplay and outsmart.
Parking along the street, outside of the general parking lot, I turn the ignition off while resting casually in my seat.
Seagulls fly around riddled with diseases and no class.
Across the river you can see the lights of Jersey.
Just because I can see them does not mean they can see me.
How can I be so confident? It’s because I operate in the darkness and with a small boat motor.
Reaching my arm out, I place it under a chilly Mr. Carlisle, sighing, “Okay, up we go,” while pushing his body upright.
His head lolls and his hat is lopsided. I fix it, straightening it out before opening my glove compartment.
Silence surrounds us. Neither of us speaks to break it. He listens. Waiting.
Unclipping both cuff links, I toss them in the box, followed by my gold tie clip.
My glasses go too, can’t risk the lenses catching a glint of light on them.
My hand grips the glove compartment once more, resting on it momentarily as I contemplate my next move.
Internally I am battling myself, but as I close my eyes, I slam the box shut.
Sorrow flows out of me with words. Perhaps it’s an apology, which makes little sense.
Dare I say it’s remorse? Fuck. I can’t be sure.
But I speak my truth to what I know it to be.
“You made me do this.” Pausing, I allow him to let it sink in.
“Everything bad that has happened is because of you. My car. My fucking car,” I shout.
“Is destroyed. My brain is freaking the fuck out. Because of you! She didn’t die.
They always fucking die. This all started. With. You.”
“I believe you're projecting your displeasure for the girl on to me. But what would I know? I am nothing but a dead person who you talk to. Who you have built a kinship with,” he rebukes. How dare he attempt to make me take responsibility for any of this.
“I told you. Don’t plead, don’t beg. Don’t speak! It buys you extra time with me. Don’t you remember?” I grunt. Mr. Carlisle is attempting to manipulate me. To plead without directly doing it. I’m done. He is done.