Runaway

The silence is deafening. Dustin strains to hear if the old man is still breathing, but stays as far from the stinking, slumped form as possible in the dilapidated one-room shack. At last a ragged inhale, rasping and gasping, gives Dustin the courage to drag his beaten body towards the door. The belt lays on the floor where the old man dropped it. Dustin knows he has to leave. This is no way to live and his mother’s death months earlier makes him realize things are never going to get better. He pulls himself upright, inspecting the damage – bleeding gash across his wiry chest, bruises the color of stinky cheese emerging, his head pounding with the hateful words and Jim Beam bottle hurled at him moments before his stepfather passed out. He needs to make some distance before the old drunk comes to.

He stumbles to the well out back and fills a canteen as he attempts to clean himself. The bites from the belt sting as cold water washes away the blood. He hasn’t brought anything with him in his haste to get away – his torn shirt will have to do. He hasn’t eaten much but has yet to feel hungry, the adrenaline fueling his fear. A voice in his head tells him to start moving - walk along the river going in the direction of the dying sun. Buzzing insects fills his ears as he staggers along, slowly. His mind is fuzzy and confused but he keeps walking. Walking for hours, taking sips from the canteen, head aching... one foot in front of the other – almost as if in a trance. Thankfully the river is running high and he’s able to replenish. Water feeds his body and soul, washing away his sins, those sins his stepfather was all too eager to remind him of with every thrash of the belt.

Snapping out of his water-logged stupor, Dustin looks up and sees through a tunnel of darkness, a light in the distance, like a beacon. It appears far off but grow nearer dramatically with every step he takes. At last he finds himself in front of a glistening white farmhouse, shining under the moonlight that he’s only just noticed. He doesn’t understand where the light source he’d originally seen has gone, as there are no lights on. The property is impeccable, maybe ten acres or so surrounded by a gleaming white picket fence. There’s a white truck in the driveway and a sparkling white barn behind the house. Dustin again hears that inner voice telling him to jump the fence to find shelter for the rest of the night in this strangely beautiful place.

His body takes over, hops the fence with the ease an athletic 15 year old can, despite his injuries. Somehow the aches have abated. He sneaks into the barn to hole up for the night. The barn is warm and sounds of chickens clucking and large animals breathing in makes the space comfortable and welcoming. He climbs into the hayloft overhead, hoping he’ll be forewarned before anyone discovers him. Sleep descends, just as he glimpses a white snake slithering along the wood rafters overhead. He doesn’t care, falling into opium filled dreams of white flowers and his mother’s brilliant smile.

Sunlight streaks across his face, warming him. Roosters make their morning calls and the animals below are munching hay. Did he miss the farmer who came to feed this morning? How’s that possible? But it’s clear when he pokes his head over the side of the loft, the animals have been fed and the cows milked. Yet, no one is in sight. He only hears the sounds of the animals, munching contentedly. Gingerly, expecting to feel the violence from yesterday’s battles, he climbs down the ladder. Surprisingly he isn’t sore and in fact feels renewed. The gash across his chest is just a scratch. His head feels lighter and more clear than ever before. He looks across the field toward the house. Not a soul in sight.

This new reality is confusing. He’s lived a hard scrabble life until this moment and can’t grasp what’s happening now. Suddenly a white tractor appears across the way, plowing the fields. When he looks closer, he realizes with a shock that no one is driving the thing. It’s driving itself, making neat lines across the fields, plowing. He starts to feel faint. How can any of this be? The voice in his head speaks again, Get some breakfast Dusty. I’ve made your favorites – scrambled eggs, cornbeef hash, fried potatoes, fresh orange juice. It’s waiting in the kitchen. Don’t be shy.

Without thinking, he lurches towards the house, his mind only focused on the need for food. The door opens easily, unlocked, and the aromas of eggs and skillet potatoes and coffee assail his senses. Instinctively he removes his boots before entering the immaculate house. He finds the kitchen, following his nose and sees a repast laid out and again hears that voice reminding him to say a prayer of thanks for this bountiful meal. He bows his head and recalls the prayers he’d recite with his mother during happier days. “...bless this food to our use. Amen.”

He notices the sunglasses, just after eating his last bite. His stomach is full to bursting. As he gets up to clean his plate, water in the sink suddenly turns on and as he holds the dishes beneath the steaming water, they are instantly clean. He looks back to find the sunglasses have moved. Now they are on the counter near the door. He puts them on and sees things through a new lens. The shiny white farmhouse isn’t white anymore. It morphs into the dark and dilapidated space of his bedroom.

Reality comes crashing back.