1. Melody
Melody
" W hat do you mean you're out of crab cakes?
How can you be out of crab cakes! This is ridiculous—I demand a refund!
" The man before me is red with rage, spittle flying from his lips and landing on the sticky diner table.
The bright colors of his sports team T-shirt mock me.
It takes all of my very thin patience to not throttle him right then and there.
"Of course, sir. We apologize for the inconvenience. We would never dream of charging you for services not rendered," I say through gritted teeth. Before he can shout out another word, I turn away and stalk to the order system.
Images of the man's corpse flash in my mind. I can almost smell the coppery scent of blood in the air as I turn back to him and present him with the amended receipt.
"There we go, see? Void, no charge. Is there anything else I can get for you, sir?" My voice ratchets up a few octaves. I'm slowly losing control. That itch under my skin is back, that gnawing in the back of my mind, and I don't think I can hold on much longer.
"No—"
"Great!" I cut him off. "Have a fantastic day!"
I'm practically running through the swinging doors to the kitchen as I rip off my server apron. My hands are shaking, just like the last time this happened, as I punch myself out on the time clock. My manager, Chet, will chew me out for not doing my side work before leaving.
But honestly, he should be thanking me. Unrolled silverware is preferable to a very dead customer in broad daylight. Not to mention the fact that I'm the only server who reliably shows up on time… if I were to be tossed in jail, he would have a hard time staffing the place.
I'm still stewing in my rage as I stomp the two blocks to my car—the asshole doesn't even let us use the diner parking lot. Sure, there's only about four spots, but it's still a bit annoying in the dead of summer. And the dead of winter. The dead of any time, really.
My junky gray car sits beneath one of the few old-growth trees on the city street, which, unfortunately, also means it's absolutely covered in bird shit.
I used to think pigeons were cute, even somewhat exotic.
I never saw them in my middle-of- nowhere Iowa hometown.
But no, they seem to have the most prolific metabolism of any creature on Earth.
And they choose my car to shit on.
As I fumble with the key fob, I notice another white… thing… on my windshield. It isn't a big splatter of pigeon poo. Fuck. No, it's a parking ticket.
"Dammit," I hiss under my breath as I swipe the envelope from under my withered windshield wiper. I forgot to feed the meter, and of course, the parking authority chose today to care about it. Quickly shoving the envelope into my back pocket, I pull on the car door handle.
"Shit!" I yelp, yanking my hand back. Even though I parked under the tree, the metal chassis of this stupid car has been cooking under the sun for seven hours. Powering through it, I open the door anyway and slide into the seat, burning my hands again on the stupid steering wheel.
Just when I thought it couldn't get worse, I remember that I left the diner without tipping out. A string of curses jet out of my mouth as I slump over, resting my forehead on the sticky-hot fake leather of my steering wheel. Fuuuuck. Do I want to go back and risk Chet's wrath?
As if overcome by some unseen force, I slip the key in the ignition and turn the engine over.
No, I don't want to go back. Not today. After the day I've had, I'm just barely hanging on—and the gnawing in the back of my skull isn't making it any better.
Clenching my jaw, I peel out of my somewhat crooked parking job.
I need to get out of this fucking city, just for a moment. If I play my cards right, I can be in the Pine Barrens just shy of an hour. Yeah… surround myself with nature.
Solitude in nature usually helps with my…
situation. And the drive itself is great, once I'm out of the city traffic.
I know the route by heart at this point, which probably says something about my mental state, but who can afford therapy?
In this economy? Plus, if I were to tell a therapist about why I'm taking so many trips out to the Pines, I don't think I would be a free woman for very long.
An hour later, I'm in a silent reverie, hypnotized by the highway lines.
It's grounding. Peaceful. The soft rumble of the tires on asphalt soothes me.
I whip past towering pines. They are a green horizon everywhere I look.
Finally, I breathe out a sigh. The tension in my shoulders dissipates, and that roar in my mind quietens.
This is what I needed. Sure, there's a few other cars on the road. But not enough to heighten my anxiety. I really, truly, feel alone in this moment. And it's pure bliss.
I can't hurt anyone when I'm alone. Well, except for me, but who cares about that?
Unfortunately, that line of thought brings the buzzing back.
God, it's back in force. My fingers flex around the wheel, and my breath hitches in my throat.
Fuck. I can't do this again. I can't start my life over again.
I don't want to be on the run forever, but I also really don't want to languish in prison.
Fuck. My heart jumps into my goddamn throat, and I'm white-knuckling it on the highway. I need to turn around, I need to get back home. I can just take some melatonin and sleep it off. It'll be fine.
I'll be fine.
And yet, I can't make myself pull off to the shoulder.
My foot presses down on the gas pedal, and I can't stop it.
The poor engine of this stupid sedan whines as I push it further, further—God, I hope there isn't a cop around here.
Wouldn't that be hilarious? That's how I go down? Speeding in the boonies?
Before I know it, I'm cackling like a cartoon witch speeding down this backwoods highway.
My eyes sting, and tears roll down my cheeks as I laugh.
This is insane. My stomach leaps and drops with the car as I rocket along, faster and faster.
The pine trees meld into a green blur, separated only by the ash grey of the worn asphalt.
I must have lost time because I don't remember when my voice gave out.
And I sure as shit don't remember coming out the other end of the Pinelands.
But the rocky soil on the shoulder gives way to loamy sand, while the trees shift from towering pines to tall grasses.
My heart pounds a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
This is bad. This is really bad. I've never lost time before. Definitely not when I've been using my one coping mechanism. I'm not even sure where I am, except for probably close to the shore. Atlantic City? Cape May?
Bing bing bing .
Tearing my eyes from the approaching coastal town, I see my car is almost out of gas.
Fuck. I run my hand down my face and clutch my cheek.
Can I fake being normal for long enough to get gas?
Shit, do I even have enough money for gas?
This little excursion has turned into, unequivocally, a bad time.
I'll have to take my chances either way because the needle on my gas gauge is beyond empty. My car is running on fumes, and I don't feel much better. Luckily, there's a gas station at the next exit. Steeling myself, I steer the car and plaster a normal-people smile on my face.
Until I remember I'm in New Jersey, and I can't pump my own gas. "Motherfucker."
A bored-looking man in high-vis yellow pokes out from the little attendant booth. Without a word, he holds out his hand for my card, and I rifle through my purse.
"Have a good evening?" I smile and say through my teeth, then cringe. What the fuck was that supposed to be? He just shrugs and points to the rear of my car.
"Regular?" he asks in a monotone voice.
"Yeah, you could say my evening is regular. I mean, it's trying to be. I want it to be regular. But we don't always get what we want, y'know?" Fuck, I can hear my voice ratcheting up several octaves.
"Do you want regular gas. Or premium."
I know it's supposed to be a question, but there's no inflection. I don't quite comprehend the words until I repeat them in my head a few times, staring him down. He kicks at the crumpled-up wrapper of some fast food item with his stained off-brand sneakers. Wait, did he ask me something?
"What?" I croak out.
"Do you want me to fill up your car with regular gas?" He furrows his brows and takes a half-step back. Probably wise. He hasn't done anything to me, but my urges want me to fucking kill him.
"Yes, please. Thank you," I manage to grit out through clenched teeth. He's just the wrong person at the wrong place. He hasn't hurt me. He hasn't done anything to me. Why do I wanna see him bleed so bad?
I force myself to stare straight ahead as he fills up my car. Fuck. Fuck. My hands won't stop trying to strangle the steering wheel. I'm itching to grab my knife from between the console and my seat. But there are cameras here—it's a gas station, of course, there are cameras.
Not here. Not now. I don't fucking want to be like this, but the dull itch at the base of my skull builds to a roar. It's taking every last ounce of my willpower to keep my eyes straight, force my hands on the wheel, and forget about the fucking knife.
Just as I'm starting to lose my battle, he shoves my credit card back through my window and tosses the receipt after it.
I peel out like a bat out of hell and promise myself a cozy night in—I'll take some melatonin.
I'll pass out at a reasonable hour. I'll sleep this all off, and tomorrow will be like it never happened.