![]() The Great American Scream MachineA Story by Dana Spicer“That damn squeaking!”
It was a complaint she clung to at the moment in an effort to stifle her minds racing. It was funny how a worn out leaf spring bushing on her ’86 Blazer (normally an annoyance she would have to spend the weekend fixing; she was, after all, the only one that knew how to keep that old Chevy running) could provide her with just the distraction she needed right now. She flew down 537, way faster than anyone should at this time of night. Her BFG Mud Terrains howled on the pavement and the wind blowing through her topless K5 (she always took the hardtop off in the summer) buffeted her face and dried her tears. Normally she would be blasting some depressing folk song to drown out her thoughts (Damien Rice always knew just when to scream), but not tonight. “God, not tonight.” She had gone to see him. Against every piece of advice she had gotten from friends and family. Against every sting of conscience and faith. She knew what she wanted was wrong but she didn’t care and she couldn’t resist anyway. And it had felt as good as she imagined it. But the guilt… “That damn squeaking!” she thought as she pushed it further into her gut and let the anger take over. Her gut responded in turn as the seatbelt grazed her stomach and she felt it through her American Eagle tank top (he always liked that shirt because it “made her tits look good”). The delicate scar that ran from the base of her sternum to just above her belly button still hadn’t completely healed. She tightened her grip on the steering wheel with her right hand (35’s and a 4-inch lift tend to make the steering a little squirelly on those old 4x4’s) and gently touched her tender belly. It was wet. She brought her fingers to her nose and smelled something she recognized - blood. How had she been so careless? “I can’t escape him,” she thought. “Even now, I can’t escape him.” Nevertheless, she drove faster, pressing the pedal down to the floor. The engine screamed doing all it could with the steep 4.10 gears. She hit a bump and her cargo shifted with a distinctive thud, thus eliminating the squeaking. “Finally!” she said out loud with a feigned satisfaction. Now there was nothing to interrupt the stifling drone of the night drive. She wouldn’t be able to take it much longer. The truck eased to a stop at the intersection of 537 and 539. It was a little too well lit and she didn’t want anyone to suspect that there was anything wrong. At least the blood was drying. That was a good sign. She knew this road like the back of her hand, having traveled it consistently for years. It was no problem for her to shut off her lights as she pulled into the dirt parking lot in front of She struggled with his heavy frame but finally got him in the water. She was up to her hips before she started filling his jacket with bricks. It was tedious but he finally sank, and took with him the pain and anguish he had caused her for so long. She pulled off her bloody shirt and soaking pants after dousing her truck bed with several bucket-fulls of water (thank God for rhino-lining) and jumped in the driver’s seat, taking one final look at the bubbles trickling up out of the water in the spot she laid her love to rest. The ghetto guys in the pimped out Navigator with the “A fitting end to this night, I suppose,” a little more loquacious than usual. She got out (in nothing but a bra and panties; the whole world could see her and she wouldn’t mind, knowing that he would never lay eyes on her body again), locked the hubs, dropped her twin-stick NP205 into front wheel drive and limped home. No sooner had she pulled into the road, her leaf spring bushing started squeaking again. © 2008 Dana SpicerReviews
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3 Reviews Added on February 13, 2008 |