Leaving

The black, leather-bound book that sat atop his work desk burned an odd type of nostalgia into that back part of his mind. It was the silent, fleeting feeling of tragedy that is so invisible when conscious. He peered through a tunnel into the familiarity of his office. The doorway around him was tall and steel. He had little room left in his bag for any keepsakes. Though, with the journey ahead it’s unlikely that anything left behind would remain when or if he returned. Clothes could be pressed and moved to squeeze more air and room out of his bag. He made room for the book.

The concrete stairwell of his apartment absorbed and spat out the stamps of his feet, the sound echoing once or twice then disappearing. The bag was on his back, held on by two straps. The fullness felt awkward against his back.

He left through the back exit, and made his way to the parking garage across the street. The heat of the sun bounced off of the blackness of the asphalt, and his feet felt warm. The shade beneath the towering figure of the garage hushed them. His car was waiting for him. Once he opened the door, heat radiated on the inside, rising from the grey leather seats and steering wheel. He put the key in the ignition and turned it forward all the way. It moaned as it started and he pulled out of the garage and onto the street.

The heat of the cabin was neutralized by the cool, fluid air that ran from the A/C vents. His hair danced as it did.

The drive was long. It was straight and unwaveringly East. The mountains rose beneath the darkening spread of the horizon, and the bushes turned into trees high above him. The valleys were deeper and the cliffs were higher. The world around him became darker, and in the midst of the deep midland of the United States, he left his car. In the trunk was: his bag, a lighter, a fishing rod, a 5-gallon jug of gasoline, and a hatchet.

He fastened the fishing rod and hatchet to his bag and stored the lighter. He took the wallet out of his pocket and placed it in the front seat of the car. He poured the gasoline onto the car. He opened the doors and poured it onto the seats and floor, onto the dash. He poured a trail of gasoline to a point twenty yards away and lit it with a match. It wasn’t long before the fire climbed higher than the treetops and fed the sky with its ash.

The forest was dark and most light came from the fire or the dim moon and stars. He walked alongside the rough road he came in from, and searched the sky for constellations he recognized. There were few he did, but many stars. He could smell and hear the fire behind him as it spread.

The man who picked him up was old, he was probably around sixty. He was mute, and used a map to point in the direction he was going. It worked. All he cared about was heading East. The car the man drove was short and long. It had a large back that he had made into a bed. There were clothes and sheets spread along the floor. He seemed like a lonely man.

He went as far as he wanted and the man dropped him off. It was almost dawn now, and the man had left to continue his journey. Near the road where he was dropped off were the large tracks of a train. He opened his bag on the ground, pulling out his keys, wallet, and phone. He laid each item of each onto the tracks one by one. First his phone, then the key to his apartment, then his car, next his bike-lock, his mother’s house. They were lined up on each side of the tracks, tracing the outline of a man.