VAGABONDS
The motel sign flickered on the highway like the light of Heaven calling us home. Our room was small, with paint peeling from the walls and windows yellow with age. Even so, it worked well for the two of us. Neither of us was accustomed to any sort of luxury. The bed sheets were soft, freshly washed, and smelled of Dollar General detergent. I sunk into them and imagined all the people who had lain there before me. Who’d slept in this very spot? Pairs of lovers tangled in a mess of limbs and lust? Lonesome travelers? Criminals, like us?
Clark showered after I suggested it. Specks of blood covered his left cheek like freckles, and I hoped the shower would work to wash them away along with some of his worry. Guilt and terror were hounds at our heels, and we were both waiting with bated breath for them to catch up to us.
While the shower ran in the bathroom, I coaxed the small TV on the bureau to life. A Gunsmoke marathon played on one of the channels, and I left it on to fill the silence. I grabbed our only luggage—a large green backpack I’d had for years—and fished around for Clark’s pack of Marlboro Golds. I wasn’t much of a smoker then, but considering the circumstances, I craved some sort of chemical relief.
Clark came out of the bathroom with a faded blue towel around his hips. His eyes looked clearer, but he kept glancing at the locked door like someone was about to burst in. With skin tinged pink from the scalding water, he gestured toward the backpack.
“Hand me that?” I tossed it toward him and he pulled out a crumpled pair of jeans and a flannel shirt.
“TV works,” I said. I let myself be crude and eyed him while he dressed. His body was lean and tanned from the August sun. He kept the buttons of his shirt open and reached his hand out for my cigarette. I passed it to him.
“Oh yeah? What’s on?” He took a long drag and exhaled through his nose.
“You’ve got eyes, don’t you?” I asked. It was the first bit of light conversation we’d had in days. He raised his eyebrows at me.
“Don’t get smart,” he said, but I could tell he liked it. He passed the cigarette back to me, and I tapped a bit of ash onto the wooden nightstand. The first time I ever saw him was with a cigarette between his teeth. He had been leaning against the five-and-dime like he owned the place. That was his way—acting like he had deep pockets when he didn’t have a pot to piss in. He was rich in ways that had nothing to do with money, or at least that’s what he’d always told me.
We’d been on the road for about two days straight at that point. Clark wouldn’t stop anywhere save for the occasional gas station, where I’d run in and grab snacks and water while he’d pump gas into the Chevy. I slept on and off in the passenger seat for a couple hours at a time, but he hadn’t yet. I stretched toward the ceiling to crack my back, and he watched me with an expression as open as a wound. There was something in his eyes, something dangerously close to soft and genuine. I blamed it on the exhaustion and looked away.
He went over to the door and checked the lock for the fourth time since we arrived. His paranoia came in waves, rising and falling like the tides back in Santa Monica. For some reason, I felt an odd calm about everything that’d happened. Then again, I wasn’t the one who pulled the trigger.
I grabbed the backpack and pulled our map out. Highways and byways cut across the paper like veins. We’d been heading south mostly, but soon we’d hit the border. I don’t think either of us knew where we were going.
“Are we leaving tomorrow?” I asked.
The mattress dipped under his weight when he sat next to me. He was so close I could smell the motel soap on his skin.
“Yeah, we better. Just to be safe.”
I nodded and folded the map up. Despite his tendency to act on pure instinct rather than logical thought, Clark wasn’t stupid. He was attuned to people, and he always knew when I was feeling blue. He reached for me and pulled me onto his lap.
“You know I didn’t want things to end up like this.” His voice was low, and his breath ran across the skin of my neck.
“I know,” I said. “It doesn’t have to be like this, though. He pulled a gun on you first.”
I could picture it in front of me like a scene from a film. As if I wasn’t even there, I could see the man pointing the shotgun at Clark. Clark was pointing his pistol at the man’s face, and he’d looked back at me. A red bandana covered half his face, but seeing his eyes had been enough. I had nodded once, and that’s when he’d pulled the trigger. We’d opened the cash register then, grabbed as much money as we could, and split.
Presently, Clark’s hands slid down my back and gripped my hips hard. I could squirm away and tell him he was going to leave bruises, but I didn’t. I knew better. Clark always held onto everything for dear life.
“Take it out of the backpack,” he said. His voice scratched against his throat like he was holding it back.
I did as he told me. The pistol was small, but that didn’t mean anything. It killed just the same. The hefty weight of the weapon in my hand both terrified and fascinated me. It was a sick sort of power—one I was afraid I could get used to.
He grabbed the barrel of the gun and pressed it against his bare chest, right over the spot where I’d usually lay my head after we made love. I wasn’t sure what he was doing, but I didn’t back down. It wasn’t in my nature. My finger hovered over the trigger.
“Could be different for you, but not for me. Tell the cops I kidnapped you. Tell them whatever. It could be self-defense. Say you got the gun from me and shot me dead. Simple.”
He looked at me with the same expression as before, open and defenseless. This time, I held his gaze.
“Simple,” I echoed in a hushed voice like we were exchanging secrets. I leaned forward and kissed him. He kept one hand on the gun and cupped my cheek with the other, kissing with hunger and clumsy passion.
We paused to catch our breath, and both of us looked down at the gun between us. He flipped the gun fast and pressed it into the skin over my sternum.
“Simple,” I said. I wasn’t scared. If he wanted to do this, I’d let him. I’d let him do anything.
His eyes were hazy and unfocused, and I wondered if he’d lost his mind.
The seconds ticked by in charged silence. If he pulled the trigger, it wouldn’t change much. I’d already laid down my life for him, this would just solidify it.
The moment split at its seams all at once. He dropped the gun as if it’d burned him and fell forward into me. I caught him in a kiss and wrapped my arms around his neck.
He was a killer, but that hardly seemed important right now. He was everything. I loved him, and I knew I’d follow him through to the end. We were fucked, I knew that. Maybe he knew it too, but it was too late. We were too caught up in the game of it all.
I held his shoulders and pulled away from him slightly.
“What if we keep running?” I asked. I searched his eyes for any doubt and came up empty. He nodded, and it was settled. We’d see this through to the end, even if it cost everything.
We held each other under the motel sheets until the sun came up. In the morning, we left and sped down the road with all the windows open. The cool wind took my breath away, but I leaned into it anyway.
Grace Tynski, 18, Illinois - USA ✯ IG: @graceetynski
“Grace Tynski is a young writer from Illinois who spends most of her time either creating or consuming art. She has an affinity for writing about women, religion, and damaged souls. When Grace isn't writing, she can be found spending time with her cats or browsing the aisles of her local library.”