Leaving pt. 2A Story by Anhedonia 1349Vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv…vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv…. Once he'd pulled out of his driveway, he'd made it a point not to think about anything concerning his life back in Oakridge; in fact, he'd done rather well considering the magnitude of the decision he'd just made. At that very moment, however, as his charcoal-grey sports-coat seized periodically in intense, five second intervals, the magnitude of the situation was made hauntingly noticeable and abundantly clear. Realizing precisely that, he reached his freed right hand over and shrugged his coat from its home in the passenger seat and into the floorboard, uncovering the three-inch by one-inch black plastic reminder that was vibrating obnoxiously against his seat covers. On the other end of that reminder was no doubt his wife, the thought of whom was enough to force his once-placated mind to start restringing chains of inquisitions faster than he could analyze them. Now you've really gone and done ityou've made a shitter out of this oneI mean reallyyou've really fucked the duck hereand honestly what the hell were you even thinking…. He did his best to ignore the situation without panicking. At first, he reached over and pressed the Away button on the front of his phone; that bought him no more than thirty seconds to think before the phone started vibrating again, and this time he could swear the monster had gotten louder. His mind began to flash images of his home, of his wife, and at that point, his vision began to blur and the bright, spring morning became smeared with black spatters of emptiness; within a few seconds, he'd begun imagining his phone vibrating so intensely that it was leaping softly from the seat and doing its best to torment his sanity. He felt the muscles in the sides of his temples clench tightly together as he closed his eyes and began to tremble nervously. He opened his eyes again and tried to focus on the road, but soon took his eyes from the road and peered over at the passenger seat. There he saw the phone with its green preview screen lighting up in the same five second intervals, lying otherwise motionless in the seat. Every fifth second, however, the phone would vibrate and remind its owner of his current situation. I'm here, it screamed in muffled, angered bursts. I'm here and your wife's on the other end and there's no way in hell that you're getting out of this…. As he struggled to regain control, he reached his free, right hand over towards the phone, this time hovering his index finger above the Away button in indecision. Rather than pushing the button, however, he grabbed the phone, snatching it out of the seat and returning his weary eyes to the road in front of him. As the phone continued seizing within his grasp, he raised the monster just enough to read the notice printed conspicuously across the screen. Home – 334-6629, it announced gleefully. Its message brought with it the same apprehension it did on most days, particularly the days after they'd fought when his wife would call and insist that she hadn't meant the things she'd said in her "hormonal rage," as she called them. Once again, his mind began racing, both carrying him back to days past and belittling him for his present stupidity. Just then, as his nerve-wracked brain began feeling slow and bogged down, he flipped open the phone and placed it to his ear. "Hello?" he said nonchalantly before he'd caught himself. As the word froze in the air, he was overtaken by nervousness; whatever courage had forced him to answer had left him just as quickly. There was a brief silence on the other line. So you are there, the voice said harshly. Where the hell are you? You've been gone for nearly two hours…. He held the phone slightly away from his ear, almost afraid that she'd somehow pick up his thoughts through the earpiece. He remained silent for what seemed like an eternity before he'd come up with a retort; by the time he had, however, his wife had jumped back in. Charles? Are you even listening to me? What's taking you so long? "I'm…I'm at the store," he said nervously. He began wondering whether or not she knew he was lying. She answered him all at once. They don't play Billy Idol at any store I've ever been in, she said, making reference to the radio blaring in the background. He reached over and turned down the volume while his wife's voice roared on the other end of the line. Charles. Stop this. Now tell me what's wrong? You seem vexed…. He noticed the smallest hint of concern, genuine concern, in her voice, and it shook him violently enough to make him actually miss Oakridge. Oakridge…Charles, that's your home…why the hell would you leave your home? his mind nagged. Just then, his wife came back on the line. Charles. Please. Just tell me you're alright. Please. Just tell me something…. "I'm fine, Connie," he said after a short pause. "I'm fine, and I'm on my way home. I'll see you after 'while…." With that, he pressed the End button, closed the phone and held it tightly in his grip. He sighed and squeezed his eyes shut momentarily before tossing the phone into the floorboard, where it settled into one of the hundreds of wrinkles now enveloping his coat. He let out one last sigh, shook his head and tried to refocus on the road when suddenly, from his peripheral, he saw the sun peeking out from around some clouds and shining itself brightly into the driver's side window; for some reason unbeknownst to Charles, those momentary rays of sunlight reminded him of going to the Oakridge aquarium as a child. The image of he and his mother walking about the crowded sidewalks on that blistering July afternoon brought a smile back to Charles' weary, pain-riddled face as he finally settled himself down enough to turn his music back up and to lose himself in the moment. In the drive. In freedom. His wife, on the other hand, remained on edge; in fact, he'd heard his phone vibrating in its floorboard nest no fewer than twenty-five times in the five hours it took him to reach San Ramo. Connie's calls came in the same pattern he was used to – one call, followed by a pause of no more than five minutes, and followed finally by a barrage of five or six calls one right after another. Keeping this in mind, he was sure that at least 75% of the calls that reached his phone were Connie's and the rest, he reasoned, were probably from his brother Billy, who Connie always leaned on in cases when which he, Charles, refused to answer his phone. This time, however, he refused both of their calls; instead, he began imagining scenarios about his new life, which always seemed to lead him humming along with some random song from good ol' Breezy 107. Somewhere around the half-way mark of his trip, however, the drive had begun to lose its excitement. About that time, he began kicking himself for not clearing the odometer before leaving Oakridge, and although the lights lighting up the skyline before him reminded him of his last business trip to San Ramo, he was still more than anxious about reaching his destination. For that reason, he became overjoyed when he'd passed the truck stop whose sign warned of a 25-mile gas shortage which ended in where else but San Ramo; at the same time, however, he was pretty bummed at the idea of the radio station losing its signal and that the final leg of his journey could require his driving in silence. Just then, the image of his wife snarling on the other end of the phone overtook him and he smiled at the prospect of silence; it wasn't until his phone began vibrating again that he'd stopped to reconsider his choice for the hundredth time. As Charles glanced into his rearview, he caught yet another of himself and thought about how much of a monster he'd really become. His mind continued uttering curses at him while he sneered at the prospect Connie crying to his voice mail. Please Charles, come back to me, she'd say, or, I'm sorry Charles for how much of a b***h I've been. He continued smiling a vicious, unwavering smile, and kept right on mocking the quivering, tear-filled voice of his other half right up to the point where San Ramo's skyline was around him rather than before him. In fact, he'd driven past two motels – one of which was fairly dumpy, the other a Holiday Inn – before he realized exactly where he was. When he finally shook himself back to reality, he saw a half-lit sign announcing the Almar Motel beckoning travelers to go against their better judgments and to settle themselves into a not-so-comfortable night's sleep among the trashiest of the trashy. The dumpy exterior of the building was only half a glimpse into what the travelers were really getting themselves into, but Charles knew that he'd found precisely the spot to stay the night. He pulled in, parking his car in the spot directly outside the motel's office; after he'd gone in, made arrangements, and returned to the parking lot, he backed his car out and resettled it in a spot directly outside his own room, room 119—his home for the next day or two, and what he considered the first real step towards a new beginning.
© 2008 Anhedonia 1349Reviews
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