The Burner

Leo sat at the stained Formica table, the motel room air thick with stale smoke and the tang of cheap whiskey. An open pack of generic cigarettes lay splayed, a single filter poking out. His hand, shaking just enough to make the pen scratch a little too hard, pressed down on the flimsy lined paper. It was for Maria, his sister. His little sister, who still saw him as something better than he was. He watched the ink bloom, a dark, bruised blue against the page. Each word a lie, or a half-truth, or a truth so ugly it felt like another lie.

He’d started it three times already. First, a plea for forgiveness. Too weak. Second, a furious rant about how he’d been set up, how it wasn't his fault. Too much anger, not enough sense. This third one, this was supposed to be the one. A quiet explanation. A goodbye, maybe. Just a letter, he told himself, but it felt heavier than the bag they’d lifted, heavier than the gun in the waistband of his sweatpants, still tucked under the mattress.

The memory of the job still snagged at the edges of his vision. The cold night air biting through his thin jacket, the adrenaline making his ears ring. The plan had been simple, clean. Get in, grab the money, get out. No alarms. No faces. But then the unexpected turn, the guard, the way things went south in a heartbeat. The crack of the shotgun, the sound echoing in his skull, even now. He hadn't pulled the trigger. He swore to himself he hadn't. But he was there. He drove the car. He saw it all, the sudden stillness, the way the man dropped like a sack of bricks.

He’d been running ever since. Three days. Three different states, maybe four. He wasn’t sure. The road became a blur, the endless asphalt, the flickering gas station signs. Every car that passed, every shadow, it all looked like a pair of flashing blue lights. His heart thumped a frantic drum against his ribs. He hadn't slept more than an hour or two at a stretch, his mind replaying the scene, over and over, trying to find a different ending, a way he could have stopped it. There wasn't one.

Maria. She was all he had left, the only one who hadn't given up on him, not even when he’d burned through all his chances, all his promises. She used to draw him pictures when she was little, stick figures with big smiles. He kept one in his wallet, folded and worn smooth. He tried to picture her face now, but it was hazy, eclipsed by the smoke from his cigarette, by the fear tightening his gut. She worked two jobs, trying to finish school, trying to make something of herself, get out of this town. And he? He just kept pulling her back down with him, a dead weight.

He scratched out a line, a clumsy attempt to explain why he hadn't called, why he was gone. *It’s for your own good, kid.* Sounded like something his old man would say, right before he walked out the door for good. The words felt hollow, a cheap excuse. What good was any of this doing her? All he was doing was leaving her with another mess to clean up, another ghost to mourn. The thought made his stomach clench. He lit another cigarette, the cherry glowing fiercely in the dim light.

He read the letter from the top, his eyes scanning his messy scrawl. "Maria, look, I know this sounds bad. Things got complicated. I had to go. Please don't worry about me. I'll be fine. Just focus on your schooling. That's the main thing. Don't let anyone tell you what to do. You're smart. Strong. You always were." He stopped. He read it again. It was a lie. All of it. He wouldn't be fine. He was already a dead man walking, just hadn't fallen over yet. And telling her not to worry? What a joke. The whole thing was soaked in worry, a thick, suffocating dread.

He imagined her reading it, her brow furrowed, her eyes filling with tears. That picture, the one he carried, would be replaced by this, by the knowledge of what he'd become. He couldn't do that to her. He couldn't drop this kind of weight on her shoulders. Not now, not ever. She deserved a life free of him, free of his bad decisions, his desperate grabs at a future he didn't deserve. Sending this letter wasn't about explaining; it was about easing his own guilt. And he didn't have that luxury anymore.

His hand, still trembling, reached out. Not for the pen, but for the corner of the page. He tore it, slowly at first, then ripped it straight down the middle. Shredded it into smaller pieces, each strip carrying a fragment of his unspoken confession. He walked to the overflowing metal ashtray, the burnt tobacco stinking, and held the scraps over the edge. With his lighter, he sparked a flame, watched it catch on the paper, curling brown and black, the words disappearing into ash. The smoke rose, thin and acrid, like the taste in his mouth.

He watched it burn until nothing was left but a fine, grey powder, then he crushed it all together with his thumb. He picked up the empty whiskey bottle, tossed it in the trash. He pulled the gun from under the mattress, checked the clip. It was full. He stared at his reflection in the greasy mirror over the sink. A stranger with hollow eyes looked back. No more letters. No more explanations. Just the road, and whatever came next. He slung the beat-up duffel bag over his shoulder, pushed open the door, and stepped out into the biting night.

He didn’t look back at the room, just kept walking, the cheap carpet squishing under his worn sneakers. He could hear the hum of the highway in the distance, a low, constant drone. He pulled his jacket tighter, felt the cold seep into his bones, and kept moving towards the sound, towards the endless stretch of darkness.