A Drive in Utah

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
Story of a misogynistic murderer.

Submitted: January 14, 2015

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Submitted: January 14, 2015

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A Drive in Utah

A woman with a long and slender body adorned with black leggings and a dark jacket that made her look like a silhouette, laid perfectly still on a bed of white. She had been there for no more than twenty minutes. Her eyes, tiny oceans as many a man has told her, remained wide open, making it evident that she was not trying at all to sleep. As long as her eyes remain open, her soul will not be hidden by eye-lids.

Beside her was a large man of forty-five years, 4 months, and 17 days. He had an odd looking mustache that curled upwards at the ends of it. A couple misplaced hairs reached almost as high as his abnormally high cheek bones that looked almost as if someone had clocked him in the face so hard that they practically reached the sides of his light blonde hair. The woman was amused by his abnormalities, she thought that he surely must have depth since he is so odd looking. That is why she went on a date with the much older man, because he surely must have depth.

He had gotten coffee from her kitchen. It was black as the sky and not sweet at all. The coffee mug had no design; all it had was the name “Christina” on it. He sipped it as he sat in the rocking chair, as he looked at the beautiful and slender body lying in the bed. Never before had a woman captured his interest for this long. Ever since he was a very young man, his time spent with women was exceptionally short. After taking a deep and long gulp of what remained of the coffee, he stood up and placed a kiss on the forehead of the still motionless, Christina.

Leaving the room, he was quick and soundless like a specter stalking its still living loved ones. A ghost following his ended life in order to see what has become of them now that they had ceased to exist. The man had left something in his car, something so heavy that his back ached just thinking about it. It was in the trunk of the corolla that once belonged to his now deceased brother, Jeremy. Without a wife or children, his brother was the only person who deserved the car with a smashed bumper and dirty dashboard.

He returned to the Christina’s room with a red container from his trunk. After taking a final moment to become entranced by the young woman’s body, the man removed the nozzle from the container. He poured it all over Christina’s body which made it glisten from the liquid.

From his pocket, he took out a box of matches he bought at a gas station on the way over the woman’s house. He told Christina that he liked to smoke after the job was done. She was looking down on the ground before he said it, and she did not move a muscle after he did. He wiped a match on the box, failing on the first try, and that made the flame that appeared on the second try all the more lovely. He put the match down on the beautiful brown hair Christina had. Her body quickly became fire, and then her bed, and soon the rest of the house. But by then, the man had already left in his Corvette. He did all of this while smoking a Marlboro with all the windows wide open.

Six evenings had passed since the night of Christina’s murder.The man was sitting in bed reading a long book about some man’s opinions on religion and god. The front cover of the book was ever so slightly ripped on the upper right corner. On page forty-five, he read: “God is nothing but what man makes of it.” With his left hand he brushed his face as he did whenever something provoked thought, but there was no longer hair there, his face was naked like a child’s after he shaved two hours before.

His hand reached for the pen on the dilapidated desk on his bed side. On a notepad, he reiterated the quote he had just read in the black ink from his pen. His thoughts scattered about through the pen as if it was a gateway to his brain. There was no longer any thought of god or religion is his brain, he was too focused to think about cliché’s. He wrote:

I enjoy leaving the lights off in the winter. Maybe it reminds me of being a kid again, forever in my room for months at a time, and sometimes years. My mother would bring me food at the appropriate time. At the start of my reclusion she would beg me to leave the room with her, and at the start of me reclusion I made it seem like I was considering it. But as time progressed and summer became fall, my mother gave up and became nothing but a maid who looked down to avoid eye contact. She never asked me to go to school. I don’t believe I was even enrolled. She stopped caring. I was no longer her son. She became innocent, she became my slave.

I have often wondered if this was cowardice or love. Both are key signs of weakness. My mother, like all of the other women I have encountered, are as weak as the light, at 6pm, on a winter’s day. My dearest brother failed to notice this. He attended school every day with the same open mind, a mind so barren that it retained nothing. He learned absolutely nothing in twelve grueling years. He was the most womanly of them all, the damned coward.

And now, decades later, I sit in the same room, reading the same book but with a different writer. Everyone is dead to me, and if they are still living, I am completely aggravated. I will die in isolation, and surely I will not care at all.”

The ink from the pen had become hazy but I didn’t matter. He had said all he needed to, as if he had any intention of showing anyone.

The time was 3am; the sun had turned its eyes away from the world many hours before.  The moon rested in the sky. It could not move from its spot, unless you can travel fast enough. A man that was in his bed awoke with a sharp breath and painfully opened eyes. He stood up instantly, put on a flannel and jeans, and went to his old car.

At 3:17am on a cool winter’s night, a man drove eighty-seven miles an hour down an endless road in Utah. On the radio was a lovely tune that he was not familiar with, but by the third chorus, he was already humming along to the addicting melody and tapping his foot to the repetitive 4/4 beat. In his mind were droning thoughts that had plagued his mind since he was a screaming child in a room with every toy he could imagine. “How fast must I go in order to outrun the past,” he said in-sync with the melody of the song.

A light, he knew he had to see a light from a cellphone. Women were always out at this hour waiting to be picked up and shown a helluva night, despite the fact they always asked for more afterwards. The man remembered a phenomenon he had learned about from a psychology book several years prior. “The-foot- in -the door phenomenon,” it was called. It’s a compliance tactic that essentially means: If someone agrees to a small favor, they are more likely to agree to a larger one later on. He mumbled to himself, “All women are guilty of that, not just the whores.”

From 132.5 feet away, he saw a young woman staring down at her phone. He looked at his speedometer, 80, 70,60,50,40,30,20,10, stopped, in park. The young lady had blonde hair, brown eyes, and freckles; she couldn’t be any older than seventeen.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

She smiled a little bit, which made her beauty stand out more. It was not a sexy beauty, it was innocence, and it was ignorance, beautiful ignorance. He started to think that she wasn’t actually a whore.

“Thank you,” she said, “what brings you out here so late?” 

“There are some bad people out at this hour, don’t you know? The better question is why are you out here? Haven’t you heard about that killer?” “You mean the one that has been killing women for decades? No, of course not. It doesn’t matter, there is no safe place in this town, we are too far away from morals,” she said. The man realized for certainty that she was not a whore.

“Well, let me help you out, do you have a home or some place I can take you?” He said like a father would. “Yeah, I have a house, but that is the same reason why I’m out here. That house is not a fucking home,” She exclaimed and clenched her fists. “I’ll take you to a hotel, I promise it’s better than freezing to death or getting murdered out here,” he said. “Fine.”

She got in the car. He looked at her face, she looked like a dream. Like a cloud was surrounding her, and he felt like he wasn’t even there. She was merely his subconscious playing tricks on him, she had to be. The only thing she was missing was a transparency, but no, she was very opaque, and he adored it. He turned up the radio which had moved to a different song three times already since he last had it on.

She knew the song. It was by her little sister’s favorite band. Her heart sang along, but she was too tired to try and hit the notes. The man turned his head to see a beautiful young woman sleeping in his car. The world had made her exhausted, so all she could do was shut her eyes and go to a place where she was by herself, her dreams. An argument with her subconscious was better than being alive in the real world. That is why she was stranded on the road in the dead of night, so she could argue with herself in peace.

The dream was gorgeous, the sky lacked clouds, and the roads lacked cars. The young woman did not know where she was exactly, but she knew it was better than where she had just been. That solitude, made her happy, even if it impossible to experience emotion in a dream.

The man stopped the car, miles away from any hotel. He took one last look at her innocence, an innocence his mother had after he stole away her soul thirty-five years ago. From his pocket he took out a wet napkin with a terrible stench, chloroform. The sun was starting to rise all over again; its time away was coming to a close. He blew a kiss to her because a kiss on the lips would awaken her, and she would be less beautiful if her eyes ever opened again. “You’re beautiful,” he said to her again.

But she heard him. In her dream she heard his words, and the entire world of solitude she had built in there for herself collapsed, and she opened her eyes. The man fell back a little bit, he screamed, not the young woman. Her innocence vanished, and to him, she became hideous. He threw his fist back and was about to hit her so she could return to her innocence. But it stopped, his fist did not go forward, it fell down to his arm rest. The terrified young woman had her eyes closed, and had her hand holding a knife that had penetrated the heart of the man. In his last moments, he looked at her innocence and the regained beauty, and said “I love you.” The woman ran out of the car, and just kept running until she reached a hotel.

 


© Copyright 2017 Jon Benham. All rights reserved.

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