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The world was full of in-betweens that night. The endless wait for a new sunrise distorted the dark; the poisoned air marked the beginning of his death, stretching the reality thin; lies and omissions. He walked along the highway, stumbling on unsteady legs, not quite there but unwelcome anywhere else. In the midst of the tangled mess in his chest shone a sharp, undeniable truth.
His mother was dead.
When Neil thought about it, shell-shocked and dazed, he could barely stop himself from falling on his knees and throwing up. He knew that the sound of dried blood ripping off the vinyl seat, the burning heat of her bones underneath his fingertips, the surface blackened and rough, was something that would haunt him for as long as he would breathe. The loud swish of cars speeding past him melted into roaring waves, crashing into each other as the smoke twirled in the air.
It was a dangerous kind of horror; one that stuck to his skin like a shadow without an owner. The asphalt beneath his feet didn’t feel any more real than the phantom feeling of knives on his body; the long-gone smell of burning flesh attacking his senses, leaving him with the repulsive want to claw at his own throat. He was walking on a highway, and he was digging in the cool sand, and dumping gasoline on the car seats, and watching flames devour the material, the skin, the bones. It was all happening at once, and it wasn’t happening at all.
His eyes wandered, barely noting the night giving way to the cutting, unforgiving light of the day. The dull pain in his legs – muscles stiff from hours of walking – felt like a far-away prickle, and when he tried clenching his fist, it didn’t feel like his own. It was as if something important had crawled out through the cracks in his skin, leaving the entrance open for an odd, unfamiliar creature to take its place. His body didn’t feel like a living thing – a complicated map of nerves and muscles – but a machine of moving parts, artificial in its existence.
He watched the world from under a thick, scratchy blanket; one misshapen second chasing another. He must have looked dire; unsteady and delirious, but no one paid attention to an odd stranger stumbling along the highway, likely writing him off as a hitchhiker or a drunk. It was a small mercy that Neil would come to appreciate days later. In the moment, though, he didn’t even think about it, his mind latching onto the familiar need to move; move faster and further away.
It was easy to fall into the well-rehearsed habits. He didn’t have to waste time on mapping out his next move, because every step was already carved somewhere deep inside of him; the wound old and covered in scar tissue. He walked, tripped every so often, and then walked some more; a mile, two, three, another one – it all became a blur. With every bit of distance put between him and the ruined car wreck, he felt a little of the weight on his shoulders lift; tangled thoughts slowing down to fleshed-out sentences.
He stopped, then staggered to his knees and threw up. The ground beneath his hands felt dry – the dirt staining his palms brown – but it was also oddly anchoring; real. He wiped his mouth with a torn sleeve and leaned back, tired eyes sweeping across his surroundings. There wasn’t much to take in; only the road, some trees, and a small gas station about seventy meters ahead. With no better options, he heaved himself from the ground and wandered to its entrance.
The door slid open with a quiet hiss, and Neil squinted against bright ceiling lights that gave the inside a cold, almost clinical appearance. He glanced at the alleys in the corner, full of snacks and sandwiches, but the sight only made his stomach twist unpleasantly; the ill feeling crawling up his throat. He shook it off and decided to make do with water, more than willing to wash out the horrible aftertaste in his mouth.
As the cashier scanned the bottle of his choosing, Neil kept an eye on the only car parked outside, shooting quick looks at the other client in the store. The driver didn’t seem to be in a rush, mindlessly browsing the shelves on the right while humming a catchy tune. An idea sparked in Neil’s mind, and he barely registered rummaging his duffel for a crumbled bill and grabbing the bottle, his thoughts already stitching together something resembling a plan. The door slid shut behind him, and he jumped into action.
Stealing cars wasn’t as complicated as it might seem; for someone with experience, it was a matter of seconds, which tended to slip away unnoticed anyway. Neil wasn’t an expert per se, but he watched his mother’s skillful hands enough times to be able to recreate it with closed eyes. The door popped, and Neil jerked it open with a glance at the two shadowed silhouettes on the other side of the building’s window. Satisfied that neither of them had noticed yet, he threw himself into the driver's seat and started the ignition.
Neil pressed the gas and didn’t look back.
The next days blurred together in a mosaic of twisted images reflected in murky water. The relative safety allowed his mind to drift, only tethered enough to decide what to do next. He remembered abandoning the car in San Francisco and staying there for the night, but if he were to be honest, he wasn’t sure where he slept or what he saw. Bits and pieces told a patchy story about leaving the city hours later, and then walking – one step, one mile, and one day at a time.
As the distance widened, his ghost began floating from memory to memory, every moment with his mother bending and warping around the edges; words and gestures becoming sharpened blades with a taste for destruction. It was a terrifying thing to realize that, for the first time in his life, he was all alone. There was no one who would stand with him against the ever-present threats, and no one who would know if – or, more precisely, when – he died. Because that was what it really came down to, wasn't it? They were always surviving on borrowed time, and without his mother’s experience, it would only be a matter of months before he followed her footsteps.
Maybe that was why his body felt weak, misshapen, as if his bones didn’t know how to stand on their own. Every breath felt like a debt he would inevitably have to pay; like a price he couldn’t afford. In the darkest hours, when monsters crawled out from hiding and people felt deprived of any responsibility, he swore he could hear his mother’s sharp whispers, ringing in his ears like a scream. He felt both numb and insane, reasonable fear intertwining with paranoia until it was no longer possible to tell them apart. He covered his eyes and counted his heartbeats, but it did little to soothe the gnawing hole in his stomach.
By the time he finally reached Millport – a small red square he highlighted on a stolen map kept in his duffle – he was half-delirious and sore from sleeping on the ground. The town was remote and a bit too small to blend in, but it still seemed like a decent enough place to stay for a while. He walked through the streets, careful to stay hidden in the shadows, and took in the old-looking cars and well-kept gardens. It all seemed very boring, which, as learned years ago, was always a good sign.
Soon, he wandered to an emptier neighborhood, where plenty of the houses appeared to be for sale – they had posters with phone numbers stuck on their doors and dark windows with no lights shining through them. Neil didn’t have it in him to think about which would make the best temporary shelter, and simply started towards the nearest one; a medium-sized, blue suburban. He fumbled with the lock, the tremble in his hands becoming embarrassingly noticeable, and managed to get the door open on the third try. He stepped in and let it click shut behind him, the sound echoing through the silence like a gunshot.
The inside was almost bare, only a couple of pieces of furniture left, and ordinary. Neil swept his gaze over the wooden window frames, clean kitchen cabinets, and the bluish wallpaper to the side. The mellow strokes of moonlight softened the room's sharp edges, and he was overcome by a strange sense of longing – a feeling alternatively terrific and gentle. Clutching his duffel, he made his way to the staircase; its age betrayed by the white paint chipping from the steps.
A dark hallway was broken apart by bright colored doors, and he briefly inspected the rooms hidden behind them – all unsurprisingly empty. As he feared someone would notice the outline of his silhouette, he settled for the bedroom with windows that didn’t look out onto the street. It had light blue walls and deep marks carved in the wooden floorboards; most likely the consequence of furniture being moved around over the years. Neil locked the door and covered his eyes.
He was tired; exhaustion weighing him down as the nausea twisted his insides. And, still, something at the back of his head begged him to keep moving. It didn't seem to matter that his legs were close to giving out, or that he would never be fast enough to outrun the monsters lurking in the dark. He knew that if his mother were here, she would have already stitched together a plan; two steps ahead and determined. She would have scolded him for acting so weak, her firm voice burying itself inside the walls and merging with the drywall. She would have been cruel and mean and awful, but she would have been here.
Neil hated her. He missed her just as much.
Muscles aching, he stifled the urge to run and curled up on the hard floor. He fought to stay awake until the ceiling started to blur, shadows swaying like trees in the wind. Trying to prepare himself for the ugliness his mind would craft was a pointless effort, so Neil didn't bother. Instead, he clutched his duffel even tighter, closed his eyes, and let sleep crawl closer, its long limbs stretching across the room. There was no warmth at his back, and no quiet breathing in the air. He pretended not to notice.
In his dreams, Neil burned down to the bone.