Bat Outta Hell

A Story by Mark Raines

The first sliver of dawn was a cruel, unforgiving blade, slicing through the comforting darkness of the bedroom. Silas was already stirring, the instinct to flee a primal hum in his bones.

The first sliver of dawn was a cruel, unforgiving blade, slicing through the comforting darkness of the bedroom. Silas was already stirring, the instinct to flee a primal hum in his bones. He moved like a shadow, pulling on clothes, his movements swift and silent, practised. Elara lay tangled in the sheets, her dark hair fanned across the pillow, looking impossibly soft and vulnerable in the nascent light. He never woke her. Couldn’t. The words, the questions, the unspoken plea in her eyes �" they would anchor him, and he couldn’t risk it. Not yet.

He pulled his worn leather jacket from the chair, the familiar weight a comfort against his restless spirit. The world outside beckoned with its chaos and its endless, open road. He glanced back, a phantom ache in his chest. Her hand had slipped from beneath the duvet, palm up, as if still reaching for him in her sleep. For a fleeting second, the urge to crawl back into her warmth, to bury his face in her hair, was almost unbearable. But the dawn was relentless. It stripped away the illusions of the night, demanding movement, demanding escape.

“Like a bat out of hell I’ll be gone when the morning comes,” he whispered, the words a silent incantation against the guilt nibbling at his edges. He was already halfway out the door, the scent of her skin, of coffee, of home, fading behind him. He didn’t look back again.

His old pickup truck roared to life, a defiant shriek in the quiet street. The engine vibrated through the floorboards, a raw, untamed energy that matched his own. He shifted into gear, tires biting the asphalt. The city was just beginning to yawn awake, hushed and grey. He drove fast, weaving through the empty thoroughfares, the wind tearing at his hair, whipping away the last tendrils of sleep and the lingering scent of Elara.

When the night is over, like a bat out of hell, I’ll be gone, gone, gone.

He chased the horizon all day, the sun a relentless golden sphere in his rearview mirror. He worked odd jobs, the kind that paid cash and required no names: loading trucks, fixing fences, delivering packages in distant towns. He ate stale sandwiches at dusty diners, drank bitter coffee, and talked to strangers about nothing important. He sought the thrill of anonymity, the freedom of being unmoored. And for a while, it worked. The weight lifted, the knot in his gut unravelled. He was alive, untethered, beholden to no one.

But the day began its slow, inevitable descent. The golden hour painted the world in hues of orange and rose, then deep, bruised purples. The calls home started, not from a phone, but from deep within him. A quiet desperation began to bloom in the hollow space where his freedom had been. The open road, once a symbol of liberation, now felt endless and lonely. The faces of strangers blurred, their voices a meaningless drone. He thought of Elara’s soft eyes, the way she hummed when she cooked, the quiet understanding in her touch. The freedom had become a cage of its own, built of emptiness.

But when the day is done, and the sun goes down and the moonlight’s shining through.

The truck, which had sped like a wild beast in the morning, now crawled, almost reluctantly, through the familiar streets. The moonlight, silver and stark, illuminated the path back to her, back to the one place he could truly rest. He saw the soft glow of her apartment windows, a beacon in the encroaching darkness. His hands were clammy on the steering wheel, his throat tight. He felt a tremor of fear, not of her rejection, but of his own unworthiness. He was soiled by the day’s wandering, marked by the need to flee, by the selfish pursuit of his own wild heart.

He cut the engine, the sudden silence deafening. He sat for a long moment, watching the window, wondering if she was awake, if she would even be there. He felt the familiar shame, the deep, abiding sense of being a stray, always leaving, always returning. What kind of love was this, that let him go and took him back, time and time again?

He pushed open the truck door, the creak loud in the quiet night. His feet dragged on the pavement. Every step towards her door was an act of profound humility, a confession of his weakness, his inescapable need. He lifted his hand, then let it fall, before finally knocking, a soft, hesitant rap.

The door opened almost immediately. Elara stood there, her silhouette framed by the warm light of the hallway. Her face was calm, unreadable, but her eyes, deep and knowing, held a flicker of something unburdened by anger or reproach. She simply looked at him, at the dust on his boots, the wind-chapped lines on his face, the desperation in his gaze.

He shifted his weight, unable to meet her steady gaze, feeling every mile of his escape, every empty moment of his freedom, like a heavy cloak. All the bravado of the morning, the defiant call of the open road, had evaporated.

Then like a sinner before the gates of Heaven I’ll come crawling on back to you.

He didn’t need to say a word. He just stood there, broken and wanting, and she reached out, her hand finding his. Her fingers wrapped around his, warm and strong, pulling him gently across the threshold, back into the light, back into their shared silence, back into the home he always fled and always returned to. The door clicked shut behind him, sealing him in the embrace of the night, until the unforgiving dawn would rise again.