Drive Away (to a better place)

Welcome Respite; Some Distance Place

"I wouldn't listen to a word she says," the gruff man says to his equally gruff friend, glasses in each of their hands at unbalanced volumes. 

"But there's still truth to it. I won't admit it to her, not on a cold day in hell, but I ain't perfect." His eyes fall to the walnut counter, and up to the miscellaneous bottles lining the shelving behind that counter. "I just need some time to think."

"Get in the car and drive." The first man flicks a finger to the door.

hah, "And go where?"

"Figure it out. Go with ya gut," he reasons. His voice is on the cusp of unsteadiness; he emanates with the tell-tale signs of an eventual stupor. 

The idea sticks to the second man's tongue. He repeats it to himself--Get in the car and drive. "You know what...? I think I will," he admits whilst retrieving a messy handful of multi-coloured, right Canadian bills. The Queen stares back at him, and it makes him think of the throne back home, waiting and vacant.

The leather has grown cold by the time he appears back within the rust-covered doors of that familiar 96'er. Old, but reliable. It sputters, sure, but runs all the same, and run did it until the roads were no longer garnished with homesteads and sidewalks. Now, there were fields and shrubbery. Natural beauty; far from manmade. The wheels roll a-steady.

Is it so hard to ask for a break? Just one break. That's all I want.

Do you think I'm not busy too? Like I don't leave at the break of dawn when my eyes are still barely open? Not like I can bring the f****n' kid with me.

Oh get a grip. You're a produce manager, Eric. You manage fruit. You're acting like you're building the god damn pyramids. 

His eyes stutter between the road and the back of his brain, slipping in and out of focus. The road turns, and so does he. 

How can you see me falling asleep at the table with her tugging at my sleeve and even consider for a second that you can go out and drink with your weird "bar friends"?

I don't have to explain myself to you. Not one word, do you get that?

And what exactly does that mean...? Is- Is there someone else?

Considered it!

Don't you walk away from me!
He notices how sensitive he's become to the lights of passersby in the night. Yellow beacons as bright as the sun obstruct the drive, making him feel an impending headache threatening to coat his skull.

Daddy?

Yes hun?

Why hasn't Mommy left her room at all today? 

She's just... Not feeling well. I think she's got that flu that's going around. It's nothing to worry about, okay?

Daddy, you said that last time. But I could hear her crying. I don't even cry when I'm sick!

...It's that time of year.

When did it start raining? He's not sure when he turned, but he's never been on this road before. The buildings are a little different, and the trees seem a little sad tonight. It's like he's unknowingly drove into a different city. His car sputters again as he slows down to the first intersection in miles. The only car on the road is his. It's rather quiet. As he drives down the unfamiliar streets, they somehow start becoming familiar. He recognizes certain cracks and potholes. He recognizes that little blue house on Apron Street that had way too many plants on its stairwell. In fact, he recognizes Apron Street.

He turns the corner to another red light in the far distance, just turning green as he makes his way to the intersection, and he blazes right through it. Then the familiarities rack up, as he sees the quaint little house belonging to his elderly neighbours. He recognizes his own home, and nestles his car in the driveway next to another similar looking car. Except, it's seems even worse for wear. Its roof was peeling away and rusted completely. The white coat turning entirely beige and unsatisfying. A door on the right side was missing. Its tail lights were broken and beaten.

He marches up the crusty front steps to his home and cracks open the door, being greeted by a thick, unholy smell and even thicker, warm air. He breathes through his mouth. The walls are sodden and moist, breathing with mould and grit, adopting a soiled yellow colour. 

It's okay. It's okay baby.

He can hear his wife speak, but can't find her. The house seems vacant. The living room TV was dismantled and covered in spiderwebs on the ground by the soot-infested fireplace. 

Daddy will be home soon. 

There are footsteps left in the dust on the carpets poorly covering the splintered, wooden floorboards. They follow down, down, down the basement steps. 

Oh, did you hear that? I think that's him now.

He makes his way down the stairs and into the large room that he called home, nestled just to the left and adjacent to the stairwell. He looks at was once the grandest room in the house, with a large flat screen TV and a couch all to himself. Crushed and crusted beer cans are scattered over the glass table. Just in front of the TV, staring at his reflection, is Eric.

Eric looks to the other Eric and has no immediate reaction; his face was hollow, with sunken cheeks and colourless eyes, and his typically brown, well-combed hair is messy and greying. His lips are cracked and dry.

"Things are a little different today." The older Eric whispers cryptically.

"Where are they?" The younger Eric asks swiftly.

"Our home here has been infected."

...

"This nice place we had is crumbling."

"You made a promise to me. This is home. This is the safe space."

"It was. Unfortunately something went very wrong."

"...Like what?"

"You will find out in the morning. When the lights turn back on."

In truth, this filthy pit was once a haven for him. A welcome respite; some distant place he went to to avoid the truths he so awfully fought. This second home was perfection--an eventual release and certainty that the future, some how, would bring spoils. That the future would provide a sizable boon to triumph upon. But that falsity was false still, and the façade was not yet constructed on this day.

"I want to wake up now."

"That is not for you to decide."

And Eric disappears, leaving the other Eric to stare dead where he himself was just standing. He stares at the footprints left in the greying, dust covered floor. He feels compelled to walk over, and to stare. Stare. Stare. Into the TV. And with such an act, he hears his daughter coo and giggle, until it's washed away in static, and his eyes don't move anymore. He stands in perpetual stillness.

When Eric awakes, his head is pounding, and his legs feel shaky. He pushes his body up and off of the concrete to find himself with a stained shirt and drool lining his chin. The sun blinds his sunken eyes, and he stands up to realize he never drove an inch. 

Author's Note

Sometimes it's hard to admit you're wrong.