Then Running
THEN: RUNNING
He should be here.
The motel room mocks me with its silence as I pace the worn, stained carpet.
Waiting.
Still waiting.
It’s hours after our scheduled meeting time, and the McArthur organization would know I left by now. I have to get to the airport if I have any chance of catching that flight to Alaska. He should be here!
But he’s not, which is why I still am, scuffing more holes into this ugly-ass floor.
After what happened with Kristen in Chicago, I knew I had to get out at any cost. I can’t do this anymore. I thought I was stronger, but maybe they’ve been right about me all along. Maybe filing someone down doesn’t transform them into something else; it only reduces them to a fraction of themselves.
After twenty-three years of being filed, I’m a thumbnail of a human.
Yes I had to get out, but I couldn’t fail, so I’ve been lying in wait. The stakes were too high. I had to be patient. I’ve spent weeks planning this, and now that I’ve made the move, there’s no going back. McArthur will kill me when he finds out I ran.
Well, he’ll want to kill me, but he won’t be able to get to me once we land in Alaska and I meet up with my contacts. Gramps always dreamt of a remote life in the wilderness, and I’m happy to give him his dream in the twilight of his life.
But he was supposed to be waiting here when I arrived.
My phone buzzes with a message, and I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s my real one, which means it’s probably him. I planted the McArthur one in a cab the second I bolted. Let them chase some random car for a while. We’ll be long gone by then.
I unlock the phone to check the message, and my heart stops.
My hands shake.
My breaths come short and stilted.
Blood pounds through the crushing silence as I stare at the unexpected name. The very last collection of letters I want to see right now. Ever.
Staring back at me is a photo of Gramps looking unhappy in his care home room. Multiple silhouettes on the wall make it clear he’s not alone. Below the photo is a simple message:
You’re making a poor decision. Go back.
Go back?! I can’t go back. They will rip me apart. Worse, probably. Everything I’ve endured up until now will seem like a vacation compared to what it will be like if I go back. Now that they know I will run, can run, forget the punishment, the living will be worse.
No.
NO!
How could this happen?! I was so careful!
“Fuck!” I cry, slamming my phone on the mattress.
My entire body is trembling as I drop to the bed and press the heels of my palms into my eyelids.
I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.
You have to.
I can’t!
Furious tears burn behind my eyes. Angry. Frustrated.
Scared.
I swat them away, my body going hot and cold in rapid alternations of shock.
I can’t go back.
But you have to.
I can’t!
The air in the stale room has become unbreathable.
Life has become fucking unbreathable.
You have to, Shaw. Your life has never been yours. You will always belong to someone else.
Fear is a scratch not a scar. Temporary. It will heal. You will survive. You always do.
I do. Even when I don’t want to.
Two hours later, I’m back in the basement of a McArthur property, being filed to a scrap of a human being.