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He was spinning – tires screaming against asphalt, a losing battle against the steering wheel, fingers fighting to keep their grip.
A useless pursuit, he knew. He recognized the heavy tinge of burning rubber, the smoke wafting from the underbelly of the car to sit heavily on the back of his tongue.
His mother was dead.
To his right, a grueling turn of the head, his mother was dead.
The car stopped.
Abram sat, shaking, grip still locked in place. It had all been for nothing; his mother’s sacrifice, the life she gave away the moment they left Dema, the life she lost at the hands of his father’s most ruthless Bishop.
He hated to admit that he was afraid, or that the wetness of his cheeks tears fleeing with abandon. He wasn’t supposed to cry, his father did not allow it, his mother scoffed at the sight. He cried, anyway. He was alone now.
He waited for the sound of an engine, or the hooves of a slender, white steed.
It didn’t come – only ocean waves, lapping peacefully on the shore below them.
Smoke turned into fire, small flames now licking out from under the hood. He watched, heart in his throat. Waited.
He didn’t miss the encompassing walls of the cement city, nor the heavy hand of his father. Didn’t miss the fear, the eggshells he spent his life walking on. His mother had said that she’d die before going back, a promise inevitably fulfilled.
Abram had no such plans.
The way a dog inspired a rabbit, Nathaniel Wesninski would run from death for as far as his legs would carry him.
He reached for his bag and stood, knees buckling, eyes wet from leftover tears and the sting of smoke, the car door groaning behind him. He ignored the sting of his palms when he fell, ancient asphalt burying beneath his skin.
Clutching his duffle bag with bloodied hands, he watched the flames, unwavering.