Running

As each night passes I notice it more and more­­­– the vast emptiness I now have inside; the weight on my soul. The further I run from what happened the darker my soul becomes. I see the barn every time I blink; I see his eyes staring through me every time I glance into the mirror. I can’t sleep. Not that I physically can’t sleep, but when I do I see the barn, I know if keep them shut my sleeping brain will take me inside. The only way to free my mind is to stop running. I know they will find out what has happened. I know they will be here. I know my soul will suffer long after the flesh decays, but it’s my only chance.

                Exhaustion sets in, it’s bound to happen while running, I can only keep my eyes open for so long, I’m unable to stop them from shutting— the thoughts just pour in. I can’t stop the images playing in the cinema of my sub-concise. A theater where the same horror film plays nightly and the same scene plays over and over using my shut eyelids as the screen. The film playing shows my souls fate: my own personal hell.

                It’s not like it is in books or how it appears in Hollywood– there is no fire, there is no brimstone. There is no other damned souls’. There is no red overlord. It is just me: it’s just that night. My hell is locked in the barn that I’m running from. My hands covered in blood: tears rolling down my cheeks, yellow hay stained red. I try to leave and run, but the barn doors are locked. Every time I try to break them open the scene starts again.

                My hands covered in blood, my victim lying in the hay with a look of shock and confusion frozen on his face. His heart is no longer beating, but I can still hear it echoing off the brown walls of the barn. I try to cover my ears to block the sound, but it penetrates my ear canal and beats on my drum growing louder and louder until I can no longer take it, I stand to turn and run from the corpse, like I did in reality, but in this hell I can’t move. My left leg becomes frozen to the cold dirt floor. Rain pounds the roof above me as lighting strikes and thunder roars. I collapse. I can feel the open eyes of the man I killed staring at me. I turn around to face what I have just done; the corpse is no longer there, the storm outside stops. I am alone: the film is on pause, giving my mind a brief moment to feel relived. I close my eyes while taking a deep breath.

This is usually when I wake up, profusely sweating, my heart pounding out of my chest. This is how each of the past four nights have gone. When I sleep I am in hell, when I am awake I am worried about sleeping and dreaming about that hell. There is no escape for me. I can keep running or I could end this now. The gun is within arm reach, I put it in the drawer in the nightstand next to this ragged bed.

The lamp flickers, I turn my head, now even more aware of the gun. I inch along the floral patterned comforter where a countless number of people have slept, probably never thinking twice of how ugly it is. I stop and think about how many other men may have fled to this motel for solace, maybe not running from something as dark what I am trying to escape, but running from something; anything, the lamp flickers again snapping me out of the thought and back to my situation.

In the pale yellow light I notice the drawer isn't shut all the way; I slide my hand into it without opening it further. I touch a book; I pause and pull it out. Now in my hands is The Holy Bible, I flip through the pages, stop and read the verse under my right thumb; But if the wicked man turns away from all the sins he committed, if he keeps all my statues and does what is right and just, he shall surely live, he shall not die. None of the crimes he committed shall be remembered against him; he shall live because of the virtue he has practiced.

I toss the seldom read, but often touched hotel bible onto the floor, the black leather sitting there, mocking me as if it were the face of God himself. Would I be forgiven for such a crime if I don’t go through with my dark thoughts? Would I be able to find enough virtue for God to give me a pass and allow Saint Peter to allow me to cross the mythical gates of heaven? Is there even such a place? What happens to the truly wicked?

I stop philosophizing about the world after and the gun once again becomes real.

I killed a man.

I’m a murderer.

Blood crusted on my left pant leg, screams still echoing in my ears.  If there is a God; if there is an afterlife; if there is a heaven and hell— I am fucked.

I lift the gun against my temple the cold blue steel feels like relief; I can taste my soul beginning to leave through my mouth, I open it wider hoping that it will help my soul reach its destination faster— which I hope is nothing like my nightmare. Tears roll down my cheek as I think my final thoughts; as I think of the worthless life I led.

I hear the sirens in the distance growing louder with each passing second. The escape is in my hand, a twitch of my finger sends my soul to its destination.

 I can stop running.