The Independent

A second story from my collection, The Construct.

Chamber Two

Independence

 

The acrid smell of gasoline didn’t have its usual soothing effect on him.  On an average day, it reminded him of his father; of crawling into a similar pickup truck and sliding over cracked vinyl skin, deep scars filled with yellow foam.  The beast rumbled; the smell was a part of it, the thick black fumes gave it character.  As a child, they’d seemed like tamed things, some boss bull to run the steers.  Today, it was only a truck stuck at a red light in the middle of the night.

 

Curtis shifted his foot against the long barrel of the rifle under his seat.  Why had he let them take his son? He sneered at the pile of folders on the seat across from him �" the seat where Kolton should have been �" and rubbed his cheeks.  He was tired.  He hated visitation, he hated judges, he hated lawyers.  Nothing was simple.  The entire system was fucked. 

 

It was some sick theater where every character eventually peeled back their face to reveal the same actor: the green face of greed.  The motions filed to free his son only resulted in more counter-motions, responses, pleas. Pennies were applause and dollars ovation.  The only answer was to think outside the box, break the bar and demand freedom.  Curtis had never seriously thought about hurting anyone before.  They’d driven him to this.  They’d kidnapped his son.

 

To have his own son taken, held prisoner, and for what?  Fines and fees that were a part of a system he’d never wanted a place in.  They could take their machine and run it fine without him.  All his family had ever wanted was to be left to their own devices.  That’s how it used to be.  He just wanted the right to do the same.  The world hadn’t changed that much. 

 

He could take his son, hide him on the property they shared; the cops could come looking all they wanted, they’d never find him.  Put him in one of the old deer blinds that had been reclaimed by the roots and vines around it.  They’d taken his only child.  There’s nothing he wouldn’t do to get him back.

 

The idea of hiding on his own land, the land his family had owned for generations, made him sick.  More angry muttering.  He had guns.  They had guns.  That was really what it came down to.  If they wanted his family they could come take them.  Better dead than a slave.  White knuckles clutched the thin bone of the steering wheel. 

 

“F**k!” He growled at the red light.  It was two in the morning; there wasn’t another car in sight.  Was it broken?  Why couldn’t he move forward?  He stared at it, angry red eye, the system staring back at him, and he realized at that moment that any hope of warring against the complex that controlled him had been lost long ago.  

Author's Note

Second stand-alone short story. These are glimpses into key moments of self-realization in character's lives. There will not be any further narrative about these characters.