Thursday, 6:30 A.M.
The red truck drove over the speed limit down the highway. Inside, the radio blasted loud rock music. It was early in the morning. One hour since Jim left Dallas. One and a half since he left the murder scene.
He spent thirty minutes of that hour focusing on carving a quick route out of the city. It wasn’t until the rural landscape replaced the urban scenery and traffic subdued that Jim could drag the first lungful of air.
His phone rang. He ignored it. What if it was Denice? What if it was his mother? What if it was the Dallas Police Department?
“Fuck,” he shouted out of the window, a lump forming in his throat. Panic, anxiety, guilt. They took turns inside of him.
The car approached a crossroad. Jim squinted his eyes trying to identify the sign concealed by the thick morning fog. He veered to the right and switched gear to drive at a regular speed. His mind was too heavy to care whether or not this was the right road. He sure hoped it was. He needed to get back home. He needed to get back to New York.
He watched the darkness of the night dissipate. The light of dawn broke out. The thought of Frank crossed his mind. So far, Jim had been clinging to that voice in the back of his head reminding him of his innocence. You didn’t do it, the voice would claim. You’re no killer.
But now. Now the voice was dead. Now Frank’s face replaced it. Please. Stop. Jim didn’t stop. He rammed the bloody hammer into his face over and over again until his head cracked and his skull split open. And even then he didn’t stop.
The sky was bright. The thick white clouds reflected the light of dawn. There was no sunshine, not on a day like this. The rainstorm was about to unleash, and Jim’s head was about to explode.
His grip on the wheel was so tight his knuckles turned white. His heart banged violently under his chest. He was sweating buckets. New York was his destination. And then what? He didn’t know where to go from there. He didn’t know where to go from here. Was this even the right road to New York? He didn’t know where he was. He didn’t know who he was.
All he knew was that he killed a man today.
Denice. His little sister. She had called him for help. It was her birthday. She wanted to be safe, she wanted her brother to keep her safe. The look in her eyes when she caught him in the garage, hammer in hand –
God, she saw. She saw everything!
His fists came striking the wheel and Jim shouted. He shouted at the top of his lungs until his voice went hoarse. He ruined his life. He ruined everything.
The cellphone rang again. This time he dragged his hand to the passenger seat where his leather jacket was lying. He stressfully patted the pockets until his palm fell on a hammer – the hammer he used to kill Frank. He knocked it over out of surprise and anger, and it rolled down to disappear somewhere underneath the seat.
The ringtone persisted. Jim pulled it out from the inside pocket and glimpsed at the screen.
James.
Then his eyes flickered up to the highway. A large truck emerged out of the white fog, dashing towards him at full speed. The phone fell out of his hand and both of his palms came clutching the wheel.
A roaring air horn pierced his ear then everything faded to black.