The Trip

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
A confused young man drives to his girlfriend's apartment and murders her.

Submitted: April 18, 2013

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Submitted: April 18, 2013

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When I think that all matter is made up of waves condensed into a slow vibration, I can’t help but wonder if that’s why our experiences seem to come in waves too. It makes sense to me that it would be that way. At least, it makes sense in a Deepak Chopra sort of way.

“Seventy-five cents.” The woman at the tollbooth barks.

I dig through the change in my center console. I don’t have enough, of course.

“Ticket please.”

“What?!” she nearly yells this time.

“Ticket please!” I yell back.

As she hands me the ticket she mutters something about manners. I close the door and drive off without thanking her. I toss the ticket out my window a few hundred feet down the road, and turn the radio up. I hate this fucking song.

I pass a road sign that reads: Gainesville 70. I feel like I’ve been driving forever. I’ve driven 1100 miles in a day and a half. I’ve had amphetamines and caramel frappucinos for breakfast, and if I hear another Black Eyed Peas’ song I’m going to drive off a cliff. I’m just kidding, of course. There are no cliffs in Florida. Maybe I’ll drive into a guard rail instead. If I had to start this trip again I’d shoot myself, I think. This makes me smile. A little at first, but eventually I’m laughing out loud. Then I’m crying, sobbing actually.

I find the apartment. I only got lost once. It’s smaller than I pictured, and only a single story building. The lawn out front is kept nicely though. I see her car parked nearby, and I know I’m at the right place. She’s going to be so surprised to see me. I’ve never been known for spontaneity. I’m never one to send flowers randomly or drop by unannounced. I don’t remember dates. I usually come off as rude, but it’s just very cluttered in my mind. Not with anything important or useful, of course. Basically this is completely out of character for me.

I pull her present out of the trunk. It’s surprisingly light, and feels really good in my hands. I smile in spite of how tired I am. My steps are steady and sure, lacking the hesitation I usually display. My footsteps sound unnaturally loud, my breathing ragged and labored. I knock, loudly. Shit. That was much louder than I intended. I hope she isn’t upset.

 A mosquito bites my neck. I barely notice. The look on her face as she opens the door  is priceless. Surprise… Confusion… Terror. I smile at her.

“Surprised to see me?” I blurt out, nervously.

Her mouth hangs open, stupidly.

“Say something...” I begin.

 All of a sudden the gun in my hand bucks, and for a second everything seems to freeze. The back of her head explodes all over the carpet behind her. As she hits the ground, a red puddle begins forming immediately. The entrance wound is small though. It leaves her face looking almost perfect. I stare into her eyes. My hands are shaking violently. The expression on my face mirrors the one on hers. Blank… Empty… Expressionless. I hold the gun to my own head, blinking slowly. It feels very heavy. It’s all I can do just to hold it up. Before I pull the trigger, I take one last look at her. The blood is pooling around her, and she’s gorgeous. I wish I had said something profound before I pulled the trigger. Something to make her understand that this was all her fault, but I know she’d never understand. She’d probably call me crazy. She’d probably tell me that I was creeping her out. Well, she’s listening now, I think to myself.

“Do you know why I did this?” I whisper.

“Because you fucking deserve it.”

I can already hear someone yelling from their lawn a few apartments down. It sounds like a couple people actually. I should hurry up before this goes from a murder-suicide to a killing spree.

The gunshot echoes in her tiny living room, and I lay down next to her. Well, fall down is probably a more appropriate description. There we lie. Side by side. Romeo and Juliet have nothing on us. I’m already dead, but if I could see this it would make me smile. The puddle of blood on the ground almost forms a heart. OK it doesn’t. That’s just my imagination, but still, we’re side by side and it’s as perfect as you could reasonably hope for.

Some asshole is tracking our blood all over the place. He’s screaming for help, and listening to her chest for a heartbeat. Relax dude, it’s too late to be a hero anyway. What do you want, a medal? There are sirens now. I guess more time has passed than I thought. Who called 911? I wonder.


© Copyright 2018 Allen Whitmore. All rights reserved.

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