‌This short story is a gruesome fiction piece, but part of my story is contained in it. A monster tortured me who used similar logic to the horrible man in the story. By freeing the woman in the story, I free myself a bit more. The story helps remind me of what I am free of. Freedom is the most valuable thing anyone has.
Christy

My Drive
by Christy Desermeaux

            I’m cruising down 42 just outside of Winston, heading for the coast. She has her thumb out as if she might withdraw it at the slightest provocation. Maybe that thumb will retreat. I doubt it because I have a new car and I don’t look out of place in it. Although the road ahead is blurry with heat, the girl and her pink painted thumb are clear. She’s standing in the shade with her duffle bag behind her heels as if she might just sit a spell when the cars are gone. Her thumb remains cocked. I lock my doors and pull over. I am considering her in my rear view mirror as she hefts her duffle bag to her shoulder. She pauses now looking back at the road she is leaving. Her bag is heavy. She gives her bag another boost and trots toward the passenger side of my car. Her blond ponytail swings. Her face is clear and tan. She’s lean and athletic looking. She’s wearing blue shorts and a white tank top. I press the window button and my tinted window slides silently down about two inches. You can never be too careful.
            “Where can I take you?“ I ask her.
            “The coast,” she says.
            She looks tired and hot. I can smell her sweat. I pop the trunk, and unlock the doors.
            “Put your bag in the trunk and grab two sodas from the cooler.”
            She is hurrying to do what I ask - how lovely - and scrambling into my car with the sodas cradled in one arm. She pauses and looks overcome for a moment. The air conditioner is blasting. She slams the door shut and I grit my teeth. Her Pepsi is between her thighs, she passes me one and wipes her wet hand on my leather seat. Relaxing into the seat, she pulls the safety belt across her lap.
            “Julie,” she offers as she pries open the soda with those pink painted nails. She takes two large gulps, kicks off her Nikes and belches. She covers her mouth, looks at me with big eyes and says, “I’m used to life at the dorms,” as if that redeems her for her rude behaviors. I want to find out if she will be missed right away. I pull away from the shoulder.
            “Coming home?“ I ask.
            “Nope, visiting friends in Bandon. What’s your name?” I won’t give her my real name, I can be Howard.
            “Howard.”
            I can see the gooseflesh rising on her legs. She folds her arms across her chest like a child who has no coat and the weather has turned ugly. I almost laugh.
            “It’s too cold.”
            What a whiner. Her skin would be cold and smooth, it would be pale and blank. I just need to follow the plan, it's foolproof.
            “There’s a blanket behind the seat.” I say. She has set her Pepsi on my new dashboard. I can barely restrain myself from taking that can and shoving it down her lovely throat. Instead, I pull out the passenger side cup holder and set the soda in it and wipe off the sticky dash with my shirtsleeve. She unbuckles her seatbelt, folds herself over the seat and fishing around back there. I see a small tattoo of a squirrel on the inside of her left calf. The plan says, “No distinguishing marks left.”
            “Got it.” She says and plops herself down in the seat. Her face is a little flushed from being upside down. She unfolds the blanket and makes herself cozy in it.
            Would anyone spot that she is gone? It will change the plan.
            “Are your friends expecting you?”
            “Uh... kinda.” She’s looking down at the floor of the car. “I
e-mailed my friend and told her I would be traveling down the coast.”
            “She will be surprised then?”
            She shrugs. I don’t push it. I can depend on at least two free days with her.  I love having time to practice.
            She is reclining in the seat, turned on her side facing me. She sighs. The blanket is pulled up to her chin and her damned pink fingernails are peeking over the edge.  
            “I am going to sleep for a while, if you don’t mind.” 
            “That’s fine, I am going to be passing through Bandon. I’ll wake you up before we get there.” I wouldn’t wake her. Her sleeping is good. The part about passing through is true. I am going through Bandon to get to the cabin on the Sixes River. That is where I will take her. The water in the river is so cold, the blood will swirl through the cold water the way smoke swirls in the air. It will stream from her fingertips after I remove those maddening nails.
            The image of flames flicking from the red blanket with the Nike tennis shoes sitting on top as I squirt them with fluid crosses my mind. I only wish that I could capture the smells. I can imagine the smells. The dry pine needles, river water, smoke, lighter fluid and sweat. I imagine them as single scents but not as they would be when they flow together in a specific moment. That is why I will repeat the process. I crave the entire sensation.
            I need those batteries though. She closes her eyes. I need to get gas. According to the plan I need to account for all the necessary items. Gas is one of them. I need batteries for the digital camera and lighter fluid, too. The images I’ll create might hold me over until I can make more, capture some of her conclusion, the end of her being and becoming. I have the tools of my trade under the seat and a gun just in case she gets out of hand. She is twitching. It is the twitch that happens between conscious and unconscious.
I’ll get the gas and stuff while she’s asleep. I pull off in Coquille at the Quick Gas. I take my bag from under my seat. I take it in with me just in case she wakes up and gets curious. She’s out cold. I tell the attendant to fill it up and give him my gas card. The convenience store has my batteries. There’s no line in the store. I have the bathroom key. I’m zipping my pants and I have a nagging feeling that I’m forgetting something, I mentally go back through the events since I picked her up. What is it? The light in the parking lot is blinding. Where’s the car?
            “Shit, the keys.”