Every Street, Chapter 11

--http://www.geocities.com/er_trig/triggersfics.html (now redesigned)--

(Thanks for the great feedback!  Sorry I haven't replied sooner.)

----------------------------------------------------------------------------
---

He found himself back on the highway, with no place to go, some hours later.
Although he knew he should be resting to give his injuries time to recover,
he felt compelled just to keep driving all night. He didn't feel tired, and
he just wanted to run as far as he could from everything behind him. He'd
left Jack with his Cubs cap, and given him a fake telephone number because
he had nothing tangible to reassure the boy that they could keep in contact.
He wouldn't have minded staying in touch with him, but he really didn't see
how - cutting all ties was the only way to break free, and it had to be
done. He pressed on the gas pedal below his foot a bit harder, watching the
gas gauge behind the wheel. He'd have to stop and fill up shortly. Eyes
peeled for gas station signs, he put some jazz music on and hummed a little.
Darkness was wrapping the area like a cloak, spreading out over the fields
and trees and the highway ahead, with only the sharp beams of car headlights
to interrupt the flow. It was these bright beams that caught the reflection
of a Texaco station sign in the distance and propelled the image to the back
of Doug's eyes. He pulled in in due course and filled the tank himself. He
was back on the highway in less than five minutes, a pack of sandwiches, a
bottle of water and a pack of beers his new passengers. He didn't stop
driving until the sun rose the following morning and his injuries cried out
for a break. He pulled over onto a grassy verge by the side of the road,
parking the car high enough up it for any other cars to pass by with no
trouble, and tilted his seat back as far as it would go. Putting a bunched
up shirt over his eyes to block out the light, Doug fell into a fitful
sleep.


----------------------------------------------------------------------------
----

He awoke only a few hours later as a tanker rumbled past, spewing fumes into
the atmosphere and Doug's car. He coughed once, not liking the stabs of pain
in his stomach enough to want to clear his lungs again, and cranked the seat
to a more upright position. Despite the twinging of the nerves in his
abdomen wall, he felt considerably better regarding his wounds. He lifted
his shirt to check the dressing and reached into the backseat for a clean
one. Pulling a face at the state of the gashed and bruised skin, he ripped
off the old dressing and put the new one on, then carefully fingered the
side of his neck where the sutures were holding him together. It didn't feel
too bad, like it was healing slowly. The sutures were neat as well, maybe
he'd lucked out with that intern. No matter how neat, he could still
visualise the scar he'd have in a few weeks time. All he'd need would be a
big bolt to attach to it, and he'd have a great Halloween get up. He rubbed
a bruise on his ribcage and yawned, stretching as much as the car would let
him before he took out the other sandwich he'd left the night before. It was
damp and unappetising, but he ate it anyway, opening a beer to follow it up
when he saw that all the water had gone. After a couple of moments to
collect his thoughts and establish where he wanted to go, he settled on the
vague idea of the New Orleans region - it must have been that music, he
thought - he turned the key and got back on the road once more.

He had reached the Mississippi Delta by the evening, and was following the
highway towards the coastline as the sun set over the near-deserted road. He
had opted to get off the Interstate before the approach to New Orleans so he
could avoid the Mardi Gras celebrations and enjoy the countryside some more,
and there were few other people with the same idea it seemed. He was
cruising at reasonable speed, looking out towards the distant horizon where
the Gulf of Mexico was glittering in the subtle light, and sipping a beer,
when his vision started to blur. Initially putting it down to the bugs and
dust in the air from the cotton fields, he rubbed each eye alternately, but
nothing changed. He blinked hard and rubbed again, shaking his head from
side to side. When he looked back up and failed to identify the sharp bend
in the road, the Jeep careered off the highway and slumped down into a
ditch, the front hitting the far slope and slamming Doug's head into the
steering wheel. His belongings in the backseat shot forward and the
cardboard box tipped its contents onto the floor. On the passenger seat,
empty food packets slipped onto the mat and under the dashboard, and three
empty beer bottles dropped off onto the stick shift and smashed. Smoke rose
from the car bonnet, which had crumpled up from the impact and the back
wheels spun in the skid marks their front counterparts had made. On the road
behind, the car had disappeared from view, and the passing Chevrolet and its
driver failed to notice the damaged automobile and the unconscious body
inside.


----------------------------------------------------------------------------
----

It could have been the noise that woke him, or the dampness, in the end. A
short sharp thundercloud burst above and the rain trickled into the car
through the open window and the sunroof, dripping onto Doug's head and
shoulders. His left side absorbed rainwater that showered in from the open
window, and a solitary drop ran by itelf down the length of a crack in the
windshield. Doug's lips moved in a soundless cry and he was aware of the
sound of the rain before he could open his eyes to see it. When he did lift
his heavy eyelids, all he saw was the black rubber cover of the steering
wheel, so close and distorted that for a moment he wondered if he had gone
blind. His right arm, previously flopped at his side, moved as if of its own
accord to the dash board and then his cheekbone, groping to feel where the
pain was coming from but not hitting the mark. Still leaning against the
wheel, Doug turned his head sideways so he looked out of the window. It was
raining, that had been the noise. And he was in a field, somewhere and there
were clouds passing by overhead...his left arm was cold, especially his
fingers. Making an effort he lifted it from where it hung and found his
fingers wet - they had been sitting in a collected puddle of rainwater. With
an intense burst of concentration, he raised both hands to the wheel and
pushed himself upright, his head lolling a bit from side to side, chin to
chest as he stuggled to come to terms with the new position and the angle at
which he sat. He was tipped forward, the force of gravity wanting to make
his upper body lean against the wheel more than ever. Looking slowly and
carefully around out of both windows, he could see the surrounding land at
an angle, the tall grass leaning backwards. He pressed a hand to his head
where it really throbbed and felt a bump the size of an egg underneath.
Taking the hand away to peer at it, he found blood smeared across it.
Thinking it was from his head he used the other hand to feel again but it
came away clean. He studied his right hand again and saw that it was the
skin there that was cut in lines, a small shard of glass stuck in one. He
pulled it out, gritting his teeth slightly as he did so, then wiped his hand
down the shirt he was wearing absent-mindedly. His head really was
pulsating. He needed to get out of the car. Yanking as hard as he could in
his weakened state at the door handle, it cracked open and he pushed his
body weight against it until it creaked open some more and he slid out. He'd
crashed. The front end of the Jeep was rammed into the far bank of a ditch,
the rest of the car lying at a twenty five degree angle as the rear wheels
balanced on the other bank. His windshield was cracked across the middle,
and the passenger window glass had fallen out completely. Taking in the
situation, through the cotton wool around his brain, he touched the bonnet
of the car where it had creased on impact, then took a step back. A glance
around confirmed he was definitely alone, and holding one hand in the other
he scaled the bank of the ditch to be certain that there was no one driving
past either. He went back down to the car, feeling the lump on his head some
more. Peering in through the windows, he saw his packing spread liberally on
the floor and reached in, picking out a cloth to wrap his hand up. Rubbing
his face with the good arm, he looked into the driver's seat and tried to
remember what had happened. All he could remember was driving and seeing the
sea in the distance - after that, nothing. He suddenly noticed the glass,
smashed pieces lying around the stick shift and looked at his hand, making
the conclusion about how he got cut. But where had the glass come from?
Reaching over the seat he brushed some of the glass around, and picked out a
rounded cylinder of glass, complete but snapped from a bottle. The
recollection of buying beer at some point came back to him and he sat down
on the grassy slope. Had he had the beer and then crashed? Had he been
driving under the influence, something that could not only have killed him
but anyone else who got in his way? Remembering his own father's death,
thoughts flew arond his mind faster than he could process them. He ran a
hand through his short hair, brushing the rain out of it now the cloud had
passed. Remembering his previous injuries as he did it, he felt around his
jaw and his front, thankful that he hadn't ripped open the sutures on his
neck - if he lost blood in large quantities out here, he would have been
dead in a matter of hours. He thought back again to the reckless behaviour
that had lead him to this position, and fingered the bandage under his
shirt. He could dimly recall soemthing the doctor had told him...something
he should have known as well. He wasn't meant to drink any alcohol within 36
hours of the fight because of the amount of blood he'd lost then...he put
two and two together and realised that he hadn't been driving over the
limit, or at least it was unlikely. Instead, he'd presumed he was okay and
recovered enough to be able to drink. Just the one beer had probably gone
straight to his head, he thought. He looked at his car, and then back down
at his feet. However he'd ended up here, he was still in a mess.


----------------------------------------------------------------------------
----

Doug sat on the edge of the cliff, overlooking the Gulf. It was a clear
night and the moon was riding high, it's reflection fractured by the rise
and fall of the water below. Every so often, a soft chugging sound would
signify the departure of yet another fishing boat going out for the night's
catch, and as yet none had returned. Fingers of the sea reached across the
small bar of sand at the foot of the cliff, wiping down the beach as they
were pulled back out again. The air was still and Doug sat in it, watching
the waves and the boats. He had a sweater, dropped in a pile next to him,
and the grass flattened underneath it but sprung up around the edges like it
had been there forever. It was one of the things he had chosen to rescue
from his car, and walk with across the fields until he reached the place he
was now. Between his hands, resting on his lap, Doug held a small, red clay
tub like a lifeline. In the tub was the bright green spiky plant that had
travelled with him from Chicago, and although it was minus a large
proportion of the soil it was previously planted in, it was still alive and
looked as fresh as the day Carol had presented him with it. Doug stopped to
wonder every so often, what people would think if they came across him,
sitting on the cliff edge, holding a potted cactus. But mostly his mind was
elsewhere, thinking about Chicago, about Carol, about Charlie, about Jack.
He'd hurt so many in such a small amount of time, and thinking back over the
last year hurt him - he didn't want to acknowledge where he'd been, where
he'd ended up, and what he'd become. But there he was, with only himself to
face up to now. He knew if he didn't now, then there would be no way out - a
downward spiral to a sorry ending. He had to admit to himself that he
couldn't go on, and that somewhere there was a gaping vacuum inside him he
had to fix. Trying to drink it away, that hollow feeling, trying to get over
it with as many women as possible, was not the answer, it couldn't be the
answer any more. He didn't want to die on a dusty road somewhere, with a
blood alcohol level sky high and his face smashed by a car engine, a hooker
in the backseat. He had been on that road, heading at full speed in that
direction, but now was the time to make a u turn. Now, with his stab wounds
and his crash injuries, his Elvis t-shirt and his jazz CD. Now was the time.
He was going to go back home and find Carol and close the sucking
perforation within his soul.

___________________