Two Hearts chapter1

Chapter 1

My favorite season has always been summer, or it was until I found out hers is winter. So I guess my favorite season is winter now, and I’ll learn to love it. But right now, it’s one-hundred-degrees outside, and I love it. I love that it’s hot, I love all my free time, and I love that Mason is spending most of his time at football camp instead of in my face. As much as I love my twin, I need space because I’ve lost my mind to Erika. There is no space left for me because there is Mason and there is Erika and I’ve gone missing in the mix.

            I really think I'm getting fat.  When I turned twelve my breasts grew overnight and so did the rest of my body, horizontally. Suddenly everything fit too tightly and I became increasingly aware of the space I took up and of the male gaze. I suppose it’s the curse of being a girl; Mason got tall and muscular at an early age, and I stayed short and changed shape. I wasn't ready to look like more than a little girl. I needed to blend in and I always did, other than for the fact I was a twin made me an anomaly. Otherwise, I was unnoticed but liked and then suddenly I was changing.  Maybe it’s not as bad as being one of those fat girls at school, bottom of the barrel, who have to squeeze into their hand-me-down clothes and can’t afford to get their hair done. Speaking of which, I’m due to get mine re-done. The reddish roots are showing and it’s throwing off my whole look. Mason thinks I’m crazy, losing weight and darkening my hair and trying to fade my tan out to porcelain. He often claims I’m obsessed with Erika. I am, but I’ll never truly be her. It's out of reach, just as she's out of reach. I will never be that poised, that intense, that intelligent, perfect”

“She’s such a snake,” Mason told me when I was told him she was spending the night. “I don’t know why you want her here all the time lately. And if you aren’t with her you text her even if she doesn’t respond for hours.”

“She’s not a snake, she’s perfect. She's kind of handling a lot.”

“She looks like she’s never been in the sun! Miriam, you are perfect,” he said, putting his hand on my shoulder. “You could have been a cheerleader or on dance squad. You could have stayed popular. You could be just like me, but you spend too much time obsessing with that weird girl.”

He looked at my cleavage and I folded my arms across my chest.

“Weird is better than boring,” I defended. “And you know it's true that my old friends are boring. Your friends are too.”  I turned away. The new cuts on my thighs sting under my pants.

“Whatever. Well, you two have fun. I’ve got some friends coming over too and we’re watching plays from last season on the big screen so keep her out of here.”

“Fine.” I always have to obey Mason. It’s such a drag. He has something against Erika because he doesn’t want me spending time with anyone other than him and Erika is the first person to really threaten his time. Mason and I were always close. He has friends, though. Why can’t I?

      Erika finally arrives at five, one hour after two of Mason’s obnoxious friends did. They look her over as she walks with me to my room and the silence itself feels audible.

She stares right back.  Please, no one say anything.

“I think your sister is a lesbo,” I hear after shutting my door. Erika jerks her head upward, staring at the door with patience that cannot afford to burn any thinner. Her eyes are piercing green, bright, I try not to get caught looking into them for too long.

“I will slit his throat,” she says calmly. “Are they assuming you’re a lesbian because they're assuming I am a lesbian, or are you a lesbian?” she asks.

I am shaken by the sudden arsenal of personal questions.

“They’re idiots, I mean, they are Mason’s friends. I have a boyfriend, you know,” I tell her. She sits on the edge of my bed. I just had my room painted purple and replaced my orange decorations with purple and black ones. These are Erika’s favorite colors, I assume, because of how often she wears them. Something about lavender makes her look very appealing.

“Not surprised. Who is it?” she asks. She's studying my room. I watch her face for a sign of approval and, as usual, see nothing.

“I can’t tell you,” I say, sitting beside her on my queen-sized bed. I really *can’t* tell her.

"And why not?"

"It's still a secret. I promised."

Erika rolled her eyes but respected my boundary. Promises mean everything to Erika and even though she doesn’t seem to have much of a conscience, she abhors the breaking of a promise.

“Well, then, what is he like? Do I know him?”

“You may know him,” I tell her, lying back. I stare at the ceiling. She lays back with me. “He’s cool. He’s strong and cute and funny. I think we may get married.”

“You are sixteen.”

“So? I won’t be forever.  Do you have a boyfriend?”

She had never mentioned one, but I felt it necessary to check. Other than me, her friends were male and she spent time with them although I never saw her act romantic towards anyone. Many times I had been surprised to learn of a new interest or hobby of Erika's. More than that, though, I wanted to pry and take attention off my own relationship.

“No, I do not,” she replied quietly, each word spoken in their own time like a sad script. Well, she definitely has someone in mind.

I decide to press the issue a little further; maybe she’ll tell me who it is.

“Who do you like?”

“No one. I hate everyone, even people I like. You know this.”

She pushes her black hair back over the top of her head, revealing her widows peak. She rarely does this and it's rare to really see her face. It’s obvious she’s hiding the fact that she likes someone, that there really is someone who pops up in the maze of her brain every time love is mentioned. I roll over on my stomach and look at her.

“Well, if you could, maybe, have sex with anyone in the world, who would it be?” I ask. She looks at me, confused.

“Why are you trifling?”

“Just talking! I told you I have a boyfriend, you have to tell me something. Just give me a hint,” I pry. She rolls her eyes. I wonder if Mason’s rumor was true and Erika liked a girl.

“Someone you know.”  I think. Who is someone I know that she also knows? It's such a small town that it could be anyone so I can assume she means that I know them well. She’s friends with Robin; he goes to the same church as me; we talk sometime on Instant Message.

“Robin Cross?”

“No way,” she said quickly. "I like him platonically."

“How well do I know him? I know tons of people,” I say. "Be a little more specific."

“You see him frequently. You had a class with him last year.”

I think further and my stomach drops.

“Mason?” I ask and my voice catches. I see him every day and we had a class together last year! Lord, I hope she’s not after my twin…That would be beyond a tangled fucking mess.

“Hell no! I do not want to do it with your brother. Try harder.”

I stare at my new purple pillow for a moment. Who does Erika hang out with? Who does she talk to? She talks to a few people – again, all guys except for me. What would Erika want in a guy? She turns her head to me and stares, as if the answer were obvious.

Her best friend in the world.

“Oh, Lewis!” I said. “Am I right?”

She doesn’t say anything, and turns back to the ceiling. I begin giggling uncontrollably. Lewis Ellington.  A pain rose from my stomach and wormed into my heart. I don't feel fondly towards Lewis. She’s always with him at school, sometimes on the way home from school, on weekends. He calls her all the time. Why didn’t I suspect anything?

“If you tell anyone,” she says slowly, “I will kill you.” She means it.

“I won’t tell anyone, but why don’t you tell him?” I figured Lewis would jump on the opportunity to date Erika because then he could justify how protective he was of her.

“Why would I? So I can lose him altogether? He has no reason to like me."

I wanted to smack myself for not seeing the signs. Lewis never dated, not that many people ever showed interest. The few that had, Erika scared them all away. I thought she was doing him a favor.

“Why do you think he doesn’t like you?”

“He doesn't. Only as a friend and barely that some days. Now you have to tell me about your boyfriend.”

“I did. He’s strong and amazing. I sleep with him all the time,” I said in boredom.

“Dude, gross,” Erika said.

“What, like you’ve never done it?” I asked.

Erika stayed silent for a moment. Oh, shit… I forget that not everyone starts so young. But my honest impression was that Erika was promiscuous.

“No. I haven’t ever done it. I have done nothing resembling it.”

“Well, it’s not that great,” I say. It is pretty over-rated but then again, I’ve never been with someone who knew what they were doing.”

 This is my attempt to have a normal-girl conversation with Erika but I can tell it’s making her uncomfortable. When I used to have friends, this is what we talked about; girls we hated, like Erika, and sex. Guys who think they're the more sex-obsessed gender are wrong. Sometimes we would talk about celebrities or clothes we wanted, too. I was part of the group that hated Erika; they talked about her constantly throughout the school year and sometimes in the summer they watched her social media. They were obsessed, and when I started having issues with Mason, I began to think being like Erika wasn’t such a bad thing. So really, I had been obsessed with her all along; my attitude just changed. Cold, distant, peculiar, unpredictable, and even hostile became positive words.  When my attitude switched, I started having less of a desire to hang out with anyone other than Erika or Mason. I started getting questioned about why I don’t have a boyfriend and I couldn’t give an answer. Everyone was wondering why I was dressing like it was winter when it wasn’t, although I insisted I wasn't hiding anything beneath my clothes, and they completely flipped when I dyed my hair darker. It got more and more obvious that I was trying to look like the most enigmatic girl in school.

“Your hair is growing out,” she says, startling me out of my reflection.

“I’m going to get it done soon. Making the appointment takes more effort than I’ve put into anything lately. I am so hungry,” I say, sitting up.  Mason and his friends are still in the living room, but I decide that I have just as much of a right to exist as he does. I open my bedroom door. “You coming?”

          Mason is sitting with his two friends. One of them has short blonde hair - kind of cute. The other is ugly as sin and has a hat on backwards. Mason catches me looking and narrows his eyes as I feel myself shrinking back.

I turn my attention to the cupboards. Erika is leaning against the counter, ignoring the glances from Mason’s friends. I quickly grab a box of cookies and lead Erika back to my room before anyone says anything to provoke her to pull the large pocket knife out of her back pocket that I just noticed.

“Why do you carry that thing?” I ask quietly once we're alone again.

“In case I have to stab someone, and-or make a sandwich. Tends to be the latter but you never know."

I begin eating the cookies mindlessly. They’re diet, but I don’t think it counts if you eat the entire package. I always eat the entire package.

               After almost an hour of Erika informing me in detail of all the interesting ways to dispose of bodies, I put a chick-flick into the DVD player and turn off the light. I get under the covers with Erika, who finally agreed to put on one of my t-shirts rather than sleeping fully dressed.

“What is this shit?”

“What time do you have to be home tomorrow?” I ask, ignoring her question.  I quickly regret it. It's a question with no answer.

“It doesn’t matter, remember?”  Erika’s grandmother died only a few weeks ago. She's being allowed to stay in her apartment because of the sympathy of the owner, until the lease runs out in November.  Her grandmother was the only family she had so she has to figure something out quick.

“I know, I know,” I say. “Sorry.” I grab her hand under the cover. Even if she shows nothing at all, I like to assume she’s upset like anyone else would be. If I was in her situation I don’t know how long I would stay alive.

              Erika fell asleep halfway through the movie and is breathing slowly. I am still holding her hand so I remain very still as I hear creaking outside the bedroom door. Mason, I’m sure. I turn the TV on silent with the remote. I can hear the door creek as he leans against it, probably trying to hear what I’m doing. My heart speeds up as the handle begins to turn. I close my eyes, feeling the cold air rush in as the door sits open. Go away, go away, go away. Not now. Don’t wake up Erika or she may stab you.

 I wait several long minutes with my eyes squeezed shut, and Mason finally leaves. I sigh and open my eyes. The door is shut and everything is okay. It’s better than okay, because Erika is here.  Her phone lights up on the nightstand beside me. I quietly pick it up and read the text message from Lewis. U awake? I think about telling him she’s asleep. Then I think about the conversation we had earlier and I text him back. Fuck off.

Miriam

A Disabled Morning in April

April is here and spring is surely in the air in most places; one can tell by the plethora of flowers, the rising temperatures, the April showers, and the godforsaken blue puzzle pieces everywhere. It's Autism Acceptance month. If you don't yet know why Autism Speaks is bad, google "eugenics" or just look at my youtbe channel DizzyDollie7 where I make a habit of ripping them to shreds. Or ask any mildly self-aware adult Autistic. Either way, Neurotypical people are getting their fill of disability inspiration porn and the disability community is just plain getting their fill. We're fed up. And I, myself, am discontented on a very personal level.

A disability pours into every area of ones life. Much like the personality, and much like the temperament, passions, voice, and smile, a disability is part of our makeup as human beings. When I speak of my own "disability" I am referring to the disorders that exist alongside my "mild Autism" or "Asperger's" and indeed sometimes the Autism itself. This is the disability that matters. I'm also nearsighted, but that disability has, for the most part, been tended to via contacts and glasses. That is a disability I share with quite a number of others and it's a disability considered mild enough for me to be treated still as human and not as a disposable burden despite the fact that without an aid, I will walk into walks and cannot drive. Autism with a side of ADHD, panic disorder, a sleep disorder, and discalculia (math disorder)are very deeply embedded in my life and mind and behavior. Do let me tell you how.

I wake up at four in the morning, sleep, anxious but ready to write. I spend a few hours in my head, writing, drinking coffee, jumping from task to task without hesitation but with intentions that are never quite fulfilled on time unless I set timers to remind me to go back to task one. I have things to do - I need to work on this book, that book, that research, this chore, prepare for a phone-call, make my daughter breakfast. I do one thing. Another timer for task two. A note on the whiteboard about task three. I reply to messages and texts I fell asleep on the night before, and flip my phone over so I cannot see the response until I am prepared because I need to control my social interaction. The same album plays through my headphones over and over and I find I'm not in my chair anymore. This is the kitchen, and I'm twirling, and I'm swaying. My gaze meets itself in the dark window, because the sun hasn't taken to the sky yet. Now I'm baltering about the living room. Life in my apartment is forever an adventure.

The sun is up and my time reminds me to do a few workouts. Feed and change my daughter. Because I do not have a direct employer, I don't have insurance, and I recently moved to New York and am in the middle of getting medicaid again. As a disabled person, legally, I qualify, but the process for both myself and my child takes time. After giving myself a pep-talk, I call medicaid. I give them my name, and my social, which I only remember because I rap the numbers.
 They ask for my zip code. I ask out loud, "what is my zip code? Give me a minute." 
I try to remember or find a piece of mail with the zip code on it. Reading numbers is hard. Repeating them back from memory after moving a dozen times in the last few years is nearly labor.
The person on the phone loudly tells me I have to already know it and hangs up on me as my ex condescendingly writes my zip code largely and sloppily while smirking after trying to rip the phone from my hand. I feel a meltdown coming on. Breathe. He doesn't matter. He's worthless. This is why we're divorced. Go to hell. Go to hell. 
I call back and speak to a better human and straighten out the issue. I need more documents. I will have to pay out of pocket for nearly $300 of medication again.

My mode is switched to offense. Life my head is forever an adventure, as it would be for an alien abandoned on this planet. My daughter is speaking in broken words and I love her and I change clothes into something softer, because I am exhausted, and she is loud while the cats smell bad and I am so alone.



This is all over by ten in the morning.

J.Endsley

Layne Damaged .ch3.

Little did John know that in Little Rock, I would finally strike out. He was in a happy moment courtesy of whiskey and a touch of cough syrup. So as he walked carefully from the car to the bathroom, I leaned against my car and surveyed the area. I filled the tank and rubbed red lipgloss across my lips. I saw a guy my age, maybe a little younger, and he was airing up his front tire. His hair was black and messy; his shirt was soaked with sweat.
I smiled across the parking lot. I closed the gas cap and looked around for cameras.
"It's a hot one," he called out to me. "Isn't it?"
"Sure is. It was 104 earlier."
"You from around these parts?"
I thought. Maybe I sounded a little different from the locals.
"I've got family here, so I'm passing through to visit," I lied as he approached. "Me and my brother."
"I'm staying this summer with family, myself. Right now I'm about to get this piece of shit towed home," he said, gesturing to his car. It was a Mustang and it had seen many crashes, I thought.
"I'm Layne," I said.
"I'm Corey," he said, reaching to shake my hand. "If you're in town this evening, you want to get a drink?"
"Sure," I said. "Preferably beer?"
"Hell yeah," he said, pulling his phone from his jeans pocket. I felt antsy as John would surely come out of the bathroom at any moment. *I have to do it.*
"I'll put my number in," I said as he handed me his unlocked phone, clicking on the settings and turning off his location. "You can text me."
He smiled and took his phone back, not glancing at it as he put it into his pocket.
"Alright, well, I'll see you later then, Layne?"
"Definitely."
As Cory turned to go back and tend to his car, he didn't see my nervous fingers grip the mini-pry crowbar from where it rested atop my tire. Above my head and into his, it crushed a bone with yelp and fell back into me.
And in a blur, I popped the trunk and smashed him once more across his skull.
*Oh, God, here comes John* I thought as I looked at the unconscious or *hopefully dead* man in the trunk.
"I'll be back," I whispered.
Grabbing my deodorant from the trunk and waving it at John as I slammed it shut and we got back into the car.
"It's hot as hell," John said, his voice soft and slow and slurred. "You're shaking."
I looked at my hands as they gripped the wheel. He was right. But he hadn't seen the blood splattered on my thigh, which I quickly rubbed away.
"Yeah, because it's hot," I confirmed flatly.
We turned the music off and we fled the scene.
The stretch between Louisiana and Missouri included the flat and bland roads of Arkansas but I knew I would never remember a moment of Arkansas as dull. The few spikes we saw made it worth it to John and the sun beat down so hard I could feel a tan imprinting itself on one of my arms and part of my thigh. I wanted to drink out of sheer boredom, though the idea of veering off highway and smashing my car into a cow made me decide to wait.
Especially with a body in the trunk.
John was further than tipsy.
"I need to go to a stop," he said.
"That was quick."
"Well yeah but it's going happen either way."
I pressed the pedal and we hit 85 mph. John needed to stop and I needed to get Cory out of the trunk.
"I'll pull over by the trees. You get out and go, and then I will.
John agreed and before I even came to a stop, he was pushing on the door.
"You have the child safety lock on," noted as I parked on the roadside and unlocked the door.
I tried to steady my breathing as John got out of the car to tend to his business. He was going to need to take a break from the inebriation for his health and because it was *my *turn* after all of this I've gone through. But at the time, his confused state was monumentally beneficial.
He jumped back in the car.
"Done. I'm tripping, Layne. I heard the car knocking."
My heart sank.
"Knocking?" I gave a phony laugh. "I've got to piss, just stay here. I'll see if there's any knocking."
John laughed and I got out of the car, immediately popping the trunk.
"Let me out, oh God," the sad voice said to me. Cory was still alive.
"I will but you're not going to like it," I said. Within seconds, my fishing knife tore across his throat and I yanked him from the trunk, struggling against his weight, and left him bleeding in the grass by the highway.
As I closed the trunk and got back into the car, I wiped blood across my black shorts. Some was on my thigh.
*Oh, shit* I thought.
"No monsters in the car, I checked," I confirmed as John changed through a few songs on his phone.
"Good. I'm not drinking anything else."
"Fuck no you aren't. You're  driving after the next stop."
John smiled and I drove away as fast as possible, glancing briefly at Cory in the rear view mirror.
"Are you bleeding?" John asked.
My vision turned tunnel as I glanced down at the smear across my pad.
"Every month!" I grinned. John scowled and I sighed in relief.
I reached across and ran my fingers through his hair, pushing it away from his face.
He smiled at me and I hit 85mph once again, my stomach knotted in butterflies as the sun began to sink.
"Let's play a game," John said. "Let's play truth or dare."
"Dare, on the interstate?"
"Truth then, except at truck stops," he modified.
I bit my lip in hesitation but adrenaline got the best of me as I grinned and whispered,
"Yes."
Speeding into the orange sunlight, my soul urged itself to slide out of my mouth and to rip John's from his body in return. He laughed as he looked at me, for he understood.

Layne Damaged .chapter 2.

Chapter 2

We were finally in Little Rock and John took over driving. I felt very awake and I felt adrenaline. That’s all I felt – not even anxiety, not anything but a rush. John was yammering non-stop, pissing me off. We pulled over to get gas again and he put his arm around me.

“This is going to be so awesome! I’ve never seen mountains up close.”

This was rather true because Louisiana is flat and we were suddenly surrounded by rocks. Big ones. John got out of the car to use the gas pump and I felt a familiar surge of impulse, and I felt that my... panties were wet? John did that? I thought, “ That better be a onetime thing…fuck. No urges towards the gay guy…nope.” As I quietly urged my body not to be so rude, I scrolled through my texts, and I had no new messages. What a shocker.

Putting that wet thought out of my mind, I walked with John into the gas station. The air was warm but not weighing me down like it did back home. I paid little attention to the scenery and more attention to the prey. There was no way I’d do it at this gas station, but the people walking around me moving like sheep, so stupid. I wonder what Bow Peep did to her sheep. How alarming, indeed.

“I want cookies, but I’ll get fat. Bananas are fattening too…” I speculated while gazing around.

“So? You’re small, eat something.” John stared at a bottle of Crown Royal out of the corner of his eye. Oh, I knew it…John was going to get alcohol regardless of age or drunk driving laws. John came across as sweet, as did I, but he was a kleptomaniac. That wasn’t something I felt compelled to do, although I would steal if I felt like it and fancied a new lip-gloss. John always managed to randomly have new toys when he had no money. I walked away towards the women's bathroom, taking my cue to not get in the way. I needed to fix that issue he caused me to have below the belt anyhow.

I picked the stall far from the door after hastily checking for feet in the stalls, unbuttoned my jeans and leaned against the wall. He better not get caught, I thought. He’s good at it…Not even when he stole that lug-wrench. He never asked me why I needed him to steal a lug wrench...he never gets caught…I’ll never get caught!

I walked out of the bathroom calmly. John, I saw through the window, was already waiting by the car for me. I left the store, buying nothing, but smirking at the cashier as he eyed me pushing through the door.

“You look all red,” John told me as I walked towards the passengers’ door. A bottle of crown was popping out of my purse. “And by the way, I got us a present.”

“It’s hot,” I said quickly. We got in, and John drove quickly away from the gas station and back onto the scenic highway. It was all going up, I thought as I blasted music and held my hand out the window, John completely rolling down his own window, singing loudly. We sang so loudly into the heat of the asphalt and the summer that I thought we might overheat and explode at any moment.

I opened up the bottle and even the Crown burned all the way down, and I passed it to John. I loved it.

“Only one sip while you're driving,” I said over the music. “Thief.” He nodded and handed it back to me. Another sip.

“You know you love it.”

My eyes widened, but I smiled. He wasn't wrong. The beat picked up and we weren't stoppable.

Layne

Layne Damaged .chapter 1.

Chapter 1

I had been planning this trip for years. Six years, to be exact. Research, studying, practicing my methods, collecting extra money and hiding it in cash in my jewelry box, finally getting my drivers license by age eighteen. That took for fucking ever. And there I was, a week before the trip, about to go into a completely different kind of trip.

“Cough syrup… like legal acid,” John said, opening his bottle of purple.

“Cough syrup,” I argued, “like what I take when I’m sick.” 

I flipped my hair out of my face to take the first gross gulp of purple, liver-murdering shit. I thought for a moment about my hair and how recognizable it would make me; blonde hair with black streaks had been out of style for a while. Oh well, I thought. Braids, pony-tails, scarves, and a new lipstick with trucker hats are a girls’ best friend. Fuck diamonds.

“Shut up and finish the bottle, Layne,” he interrupted my contemplation. “I’m done with mine.” It was true. John sat with his back against the wall in the dark room we were in; his apartment was pretty empty, and he was pretty much addicted to cough syrup ever since his boyfriend cheated on him.

“Should I take him back?” he asked. I stretched and dropped my now empty bottle onto the floor near John’s. He removed his beanie from his jaw-length brown hair, perfectly straightened and highlighted. He tossed it against the wall. I felt itchy on the white, purple-stained carpet.

“Think about it on the road trip,” I replied. I couldn’t have my naïve accomplice back out on me to make up with his unfaithful boyfriend, and it would be good for John to be too contemplative and depressed on the trip to pay much attention to what I was going to be doing. “I’m thirsty. Do you have any whiskey?”

“I have a bottle of wine. Well, half of one.”

“Fucking wine?”

“Alcohol doesn’t help you if you’re thirsty anyway. You really want to be drunk and robo-tripping at the same time?”

 I thought for a quick moment.

“Half a bottle of wine won’t get me drunk. You’re already tripping if you think that. Have we met?”

 I stood up and walked the whole seven feet over to the refrigerator. I was beginning to feel tall. A half-empty bottle of red win looked at me from inside, and I gripped it around the neck, daring it to slip away from me. I sat next to John.

“I feel loopy,” he said, smacking his head against the wall. I downed the wine and gagged slightly.

“I feel ready,” I said, “for the road trip.”

“You have everything packed?”

“Just about. Just need to change my oil and rotate the tires.”

“I still need to pack…”

John spread out on the floor and so did I. R.E.M was playing loudly through the apartment. I felt insane from the cough syrup and made sure not to talk much; I just made short replies which took forever to escape my mouth whenever John asked what he should do about his boyfriend. He eventually grew quiet and began humming the songs. I daydreamed about the trip. Zigzagging across America in my dark green car with John. Eating at truck stops, sleeping in dirty hotels. I told my parents that I wanted to take a trip to California during the summer before starting college. They were surprisingly fine with it and what they didn’t know is that I wasn’t going anywhere near California on this trip. I wasn’t going to stay in one state for more than three days; that would be far too risky. They gave me an extra one-thousand dollars to go along with the several thousand they didn’t know I had saved up. After penny-pinching for two years and not buying a damn thing except a gun silencer, bullets, my nice knife collection, and liquor, I had just enough for this road trip.

I sighed loudly. I was going to be better than my idols. I would be so good they wouldn’t even be my idols anymore. Dahmer, Bundy, and Gacey were going to be rolling in their graves. My tactics would be better, my plan was more than sufficient, and, most of all, I wasn’t going to get caught. From my Louisiana home-town all the way up to the Canadian border, death would be striking, and striking, and striking until I ran out of venom or just got plain bored of it. And I doubted that would happen. If I get bored of that, well... there's not much left to alleviate it. 

“Layne, are you sure you’ve got enough money for this?” my dad asked. I was at home for once, instead of drifting around like I usually do, playing music, trying to score alcohol or whatever else I might find. Alcohol, I thought… that could cause problems with this whole mission.

“I’m pretty sure. I’ve been saving for a minute there.”

“Well, I put a few hundred extra dollars in your account just in case,” he said, putting his trucker hat over his less-than-full head of hair. “I know you’ll want to be getting souvenirs and all that.”

“Not much of a souvenir person, but thanks. Maybe I'll get a shot glass.” My dad shot me a wary glance.

 I wondered what kind of souvenirs I would be picking up from my victims… hair? Teeth? I’m thinking, pinky finger bone. I sure as hell wasn’t going to bring back shot glasses from every state I’d been to where someone happened to be murdered or missing.

Aside from the looking forward to fulfilling my plans, I was looking forward to being somewhere other than my town. Spending my whole life tied down to this humid hell hole was not the plan, and even though I’d be returning, a vacation was much needed. I was going to end up killing someone I knew if I didn’t get away. Getting this need out of my system before coming back home would be crucial. Going on a frenzy in a town where everyone knows who sneezes when wouldn’t work out to my benefit.

John had packed more normal things for the trip and I was putting his bags into my car while he sat on the curb in front of his apartment. We would be leaving in the morning.

“Man, you don’t even have stuff in your apartment. How do you have so many bags?” I asked. He sighed.

“I have to have things, you know… what are you taking?”

“Just clothes, really.” And weapons. And hats. And maps. An extra gas can.

“No drunk driving,” he said.

“Fine. You drive.”

“No! I will some but you have to drive too.”

“We’re taking a lot of back roads,” I said, looking at the main map, “because I hate the interstate.” And because there are more cops on the interstate.

“It’s going to take forever to get to Canada.”

“This isn’t all about Canada, it’s about the actual trip.”

I stayed at John’s apartment that night and he talked little about his romantic issues. This was a good thing for my blood pressure but I wondered if he was over it somehow. Probably not; John was very sensitive to his love issues, although not sensitive to much else. He never was the type to sit and cry over things, unless, of course, it was a boyfriend.

I barely slept which was annoying. I woke up suddenly when I thought I heard someone breaking in – I guess the trip was getting to me. John was asleep beside me. I ended up staring at the ceiling for several hours before I started falling back asleep and then the alarm startled me. Great, I thought, a long night of startling noises before I spend months driving around.

“Bro, wake up,” I said, shaking John. “The alarm is going off.” John opened his eyes slowly.

“No it’s not.” I looked at him like he was a retard and the alarm stopped. I looked at it. “It’s only three.”

“Well I must have set it too early.” I continued to stare at it. John rolled over onto the floor to face the wall.

“Well if you’re going to get up, remember to take your Xanax.”

I took my Xanax and stared into the mirror because as it seems, I have outburst of anger. I was going to run out of Xanax if I kept taking it several times a day – something John never saw me do. So I put it in my bag and tried to ignore it while I marked off hotels on the map. The first stop would be in Little Rock, Arkansas. John would hopefully still be distracted and wouldn’t be annoying me the whole time. I had wondered before if John had sensed I was a bit off – he never acted weirded out even if I slipped up and said something really strange. It was a good thing, because without sleep, I’d probably say several stupid things. I knew everyone was just like me except their interests were different. This is my knitting, art, my hammer and nail. It’s just illegal.

“Tell me again why we’re up at four?” John asked, walking slowly into the room. “My boyfriend is an asshole,” he said. He stared for a moment, looking me in the eyes with a strange glazed appearance.

“You don’t have a boyfriend. And I’ve been up all night. You’re up at four because we’re leaving at four,” I retorted.

“Okay. I’m going to need to go get coffee if you expect me to stay awake.”

“That’s fine. I probably need it too.”

We moved like sloths at the truck stop while making coffee. John was rather simple about his. I put white chocolate in mine and a ton of sweetener and whipped cream.

That’s more sugar than caffeine,” he said, watching me.

“No it’s a pretty equal amount. I’ll be way more hyper than you.”

“Because hyper driving is a good thing?” He brushed his hair aside. He was smiling a bit, which I hadn’t seen in days. Really must be over that boyfriend, I thought.

“Shut the fuck up, we need to go.”

With a full tank of gas and a lot of coffee, we left town. I felt like turning around and pointing at it and cussing it out when we crossed the parish line but I decided against it. I played really loud music instead. It was lucky that we had such similar taste in music or he would have had to walk home. I spaced out on the interstate, which was fairly empty. Whoa, I thought, I’m going to kill people all month.

“Layne...” I heard someone say. It sounded really distant. “Layne…” The sun was barely up. “Layne!”

“What!” I screamed. I had forgotten John was in the car.

“You’re going eighty!”

“Eighty wha… oh…” I was driving eighty miles an hour. I slowed down to sixty to appease John and to avoid cops.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he squealed.

“Lots of things. I was spaced out.”

“No spacing out and driving.”

“Okay, Mr. Take-Your-Xanax.”

I didn’t space out like that again for a while. We were about four hours away from Little Rock, and I was excited. When stopping at truck stops or going through parts of Louisiana and Arkansas towns I had never seen, I watched people. I wondered what I would say to lure them away if I were alone. I wondered how easy it would be to sneak into their cars which they left unlocked usually. I saw a million drop-spots, saw a million potentials. John was clueless. And in the way. He didn’t seem so upset about the boyfriend at all; he was excited about the trip and therefore distracted.

How the fuck do I make him fall asleep?

Layne