Samuel Clark

Desperate, weary, haggard, disheveled, lost. Lyle a mere fragment of himself, gazes into the mirror. His mind blank, he finds comfort in the numbness. It doesn’t last long before his thoughts drift to the impending phone call.

He’s lost track of time. It was daylight when he arrived at the motel. Now, it’s pitch dark, the stale desert air chokes him.

He watches in the mirror as a tiny bead of sweat trickles down his temple onto his cheek. He hasn’t slept since he arrived and only now the insomnia is setting in. The tightness in his head is a strain on his being, the potential energy shifts about his body, he feels muscle spasms in his thigh, he punches his leg, but it keeps trembling in uneven breaks.

Running the tap, the sharp drone echoes around the acoustics of the bathroom. He watches the water pool in the sink; he splashes his face, finds relief in its coolness. But it’s only temporary. Once more he examines his face in the mirror, the words come back to him. Desperate, weary, haggard, disheveled, lost.

The sink almost full he turns the tap off - all that’s left is the hollow drip, drip, drip. He clutches the edges of the unit holding tighter and tighter, hanging on for dear life, as if he’ll be swallowed by his own sense of dread. The dread of that phone ringing, knowing he hasn’t done what was asked of him. He tells himself - everything will be okay, it’ll all be over within the next few hours. He tells himself he’s not afraid to die. He tells himself he has no regrets. But none of this eases the looming dread hanging over him. He lowers his face into the water, cleansing himself for as long as possible, but you can only hold your breath for so long.

He jerks his face out of the sink gasping for air, sucking it in as if it were running out. His breath short and sharp, the oxygen fills his lungs, his body regains normality.

He takes one final look at himself in the mirror, snatches the towel from the rack he pats his face dry, the soft cotton, gentle to the touch, soothing. He leaves the bathroom, to that phone, to that room.

The white towel thrown over his shoulder Lyle seats himself in the wicker chair next to the nightstand. He lifts his feet up, resting them on the bed. Leaning back he stares at the ceiling, the dry desert heat already taking effect, the sweat gathering on his forehead, his white shirt clinging to his body. His eyes shift to the stationary fan on the ceiling, he stares at it, as if willing it to work. Sitting up a little, he locks his eyes on the phone, wishing it would ring, wishing it was all over. It’s hard to take, all this waiting. The empty gap between events that somehow, must be filled. Filled with what? Lyle doesn’t know. He sits there, his head full of vague thoughts about how this might play out, none of them really take shape, just odd images, the incoherence of a dream. He imagines himself dying in all sorts of various ways. A knock at the door, behind it, a hired goon, holding a shotgun, he blasts a hole in Lyle’s chest. Maybe they’ll let him go, he carries on with his life (such as it is) then, when he’s just starting to feel comfortable, at ease, when he least expects it - BANG! They could tie him up and throw him in the back of a car, drive out to the desert and leave him there to rot. This thought almost makes Lyle sick, it doesn’t bare thinking about.

He curses himself. Why didn’t I just do it?

"Ring damn it! Ring!" The phone remains as silent as ever. Calming down a little, wiping his forehead with the towel he leans across and pulls the drawer open. Inside, the standard Bible: King James Version, a packet of Marlboro’s, A Zippo, and his gun. The chrome glistens in the moonlight as he lifts the gun out of the drawer. The soft drone of insects and crickets outside provide gentle background noise, he finds it soothing and peaceful, the calm before the storm. He runs his finger along the square barrel, gazing at it in a kind of trance. He clicks the magazine open, checks it, slots it back in, pulls back the hammer, the unlit cigarette hanging from his lips. Reaching for the Zippo in the drawer he notices the bible again. It may be a good time to read a couple of chapters he thinks, connect with his maker before actually meeting him. With his head so tight and strained and feeling as weary as he does, he figures reading would be an exercise in futility. 14^th May 2004, today, this is the day he will die.

A fly buzzes around the room. Lyle watches it vacantly as it darts about from surface to wall, from wall to surface, from the bed to the nightstand, from the nightstand to the small TV, from the TV to the ceiling. Finally it perches itself on the end of Lyle’s foot. He keeps watching it curiously as the fly scratches its back legs together, twitching its head in minute movements. The sound is deafening. The insomnia, the weariness in his bones and head such as it is, sounds get elevated to acutely high levels. The ticking clock, like a pendulum, an endless countdown to the end of his life. He doesn’t know how or when, but he knows why and he knows for sure it’s going to happen. He takes aim peering down the barrel of the gun never taking his eye off the fly. His finger rests against the trigger. Lyle tightens his grip around the gun and squeezes.

There’s just a hollow click. There are no bullets in his gun. This could turn out to be a blessing in disguise. Lyle checks his watch again. The hand ticking over click-by-click, he can almost hear it, faint as it is. One minute past one. He lets the gun fall limp in his hand, tosses it on the bed.

The flame from the Zippo lights up the room for a brief moment, he hears the crackle of tobacco as he inhales. The thick white vapors evaporate into nothing and he inhales once more, the smoke gripping his lungs, tightening his chest for a split-second, it settles, he’s satisfied, but that soon fades, he inhales once more.

There’s serenity about him now, another moment where everything seems okay, where everything seems normal and life couldn’t be better. It lasts only a split second and his thoughts return to that impending phone call.

He ponders why he just doesn’t make a run for it, leave this damned motel, see how long he can survive before they find him. But what this implies is - staying in more motels, drifting aimlessly from town to town, keeping a low profile, making sure not to connect with anyone or anything for too long, not being able to trust even the most mundane passer by. The suspicion and paranoia would eventually consume his every movement, his every thought, his life.

It would be a question of waiting for the inevitable only on a longer time line. The exact same situation he is in now in different locations. Lyle has always been a person to face his problems head on, no point in hiding, because they will eventually find you out. It’s just the waiting he can’t stand as if time is niggling at him second by second, one tick at a time. He checks his watch again three minutes past one. He watches the phone again, readjusts himself in his seat and waits. Once again the fly buzzes around the room landing in seemingly arbitrary places. Lyle watches it, transfixed, trying to figure out the method in this fly’s madness.

There is none.

He closes his eyes. He sees himself like the fly moving and shifting about through life, landing in random places, moving on when there’s nothing of use to him anymore. Eventually the fly will come to rest in one place and die. Is this Lyle’s resting place will he move on no longer?

He lets out a frustrated groan, stabs the cigarette out in the ashtray and charges out of the wicker chair. The sweat collected on his forehead, body and clothes is beginning to itch. He’s had about all he can take from this oppressive heat. He paces up and down the room trying to cool off. The window is already open, he looks out at the blackness that is the desert, a seeming void of shapes and images he can’t quite place, just the vague outlines of things. His surroundings seemingly dead and black. His thoughts ease again and his mind goes blank. He’s almost at peace with himself. Another split second moment where everything’s okay.

The phone rings.

Lyle stares at the phone, long and hard, reluctant to pick up the receiver. The harsh repetitive tone, intrusive. He sits on the bed, composes himself.

"Is it done?" the monotone voice says. Lyle doesn’t reply. Should he lie? Wrangle his way out of it with a few well-placed excuses. To him this is a pathetic course of action, he simply says…

"No." No reply, just the dead tone ringing through his ears. Slowly he replaces the receiver and staring him in the face, ominous, is more waiting. Another gap in time to be filled. He looks to the gun, wishing it were loaded, wishing he’d actually bought some bullets. Wishing they would arrive quickly. Head in his hands he lets out another frustrated groan. Why didn’t he just do it? He was supposed to kill a woman, a woman by the name of Leila, he didn’t know her from Adam, he didn’t even know why they wanted her dead. When it came to the crunch he just couldn’t do it, take someone’s life, no matter how much money they were offering. He curses himself; he curses his sense of conscience. He could’ve made at least three blockbuster movies with the amount on offer. He could’ve pulled himself out of the mire, an opportunity missed, all be it a tainted one.

Now, faced with his own demise his thoughts drift to his ex-wife. He fails to recollect exactly what went wrong. They just fell into their own separate routines. What was one became two. He remembers arguments about which one wasn’t making enough effort and the strain presented by their high profile jobs. She was an actress in a highly popular sitcom. The press lavished their attention on them, unrelenting. Every move they made had implied meaning, and was endlessly scrutinized. Lyle was a movie producer, and for all intents and purposes, still is, but barely. His career is now hanging by a thread and has been for some time.

He remembers how beautiful she was, but not in an obvious way, it was difficult to place. She had a certain quality that might have been found in her unique mannerisms, maybe the way she smiled, slight and inviting. Her soft, open demeanor. Her generous spirit, and altruistic nature. Was it her character that underlined her beauty, made it more prominent? The gentle delicate tone of her voice, unassuming. Was it in the mundane details? Her jet black hair, her pale but soft clear skin, her deep inviting brown eyes, the way her clothes hung from her, fitting like a glove. Was it in her sense of style and finesse, in the way she carried herself? She always looked strangely lost and stranded, telling in that deep soulful look in her eyes, crying out to be saved, to be comforted, no one could reach her, not even Lyle. It all adds up to a profoundly amazing woman. He still loves her and always carries her around with him, haunted by her memory. No woman on this planet would affect him the way she did. Lyle laments her loss sitting in this grubby motel room. Pain and desperation now consume his thoughts, piled on top of the dread, the tension, and the anxiety. He lets out yet another frustrated groan, more pain in his voice this time. These feelings are killing him bit-by-bit, eroding at his sense of optimism and hope. Everything turned to shit after she left. His career, mere ashes. He was forced into dirty dealing, corruption and lies just to stay afloat. He’d been slowly sinking to the bottom, and there was no way back up.

What if he were someone else? A simple office worker punching numbers into a computer, going out to lunch with colleagues, coming home to a wife in the suburbs with 2.4 children, mortgage payments, taxes. Did he choose his destiny or did it choose him? Is this his fault or someone else’s?

He closes his eyes but there’s no chance of sleep, his thoughts burn a hole in his head. The dry heat never more oppressive and unbearable, the silence deafening. Is there no respite from this consistent nothingness? He just wants to be free. Free of the waiting, the anxiety, the thinking, free of himself.

Outside he hears an engine purring, the gravel underneath the tires rumbling and crunching as the car comes to a stop. Then there’s the clunk, click of the door and someone getting out. Footsteps making the same impending crunch. Lyle raises his head in anticipation, his eyes focused on the door.

No one comes. He takes another cigarette from the packet, lights it and slumps back on the bed. Once again he asks himself why he doesn’t just make a run for it. He has a car, he has a full tank of gas, no clothes or toothbrush or creature comforts of any kind, but he has a little money. He could just slip through the cracks, maybe disguise himself as a bum, live on the streets in a city for a few years. Maybe with enough time he’ll slip off their radar and they’ll forget him. No chance. He’ll be dead either now or later. Much like everyone else. But what makes him different is - he’s lost the will to survive, to trudge on through pain and suffering, defy the odds.

He lifts himself from the bed and gazes around the room. The off-white walls seem to swell and crack in the heat. The carpet, also off white, faded and tearing at the edges. The small portable TV. He sees his distorted reflection in the blackened glass. Man I look like shit. Taking a long slow drag on the cigarette he makes smoke rings out of the thick white smoke. He lies back on the bed, his every nerve twitching. Staring at the ceiling he notices the long cracks stemming from the light bulb fitting, all of them branching off into smaller cracks. He imagines the roof caving in on him relieving him from all this anxiety. His eyes close again and thinks about all the things he hasn’t done and all the things he would like to do. Meet an obscenely beautiful woman, buy a log cabin in the country, isolate himself from the world, the degradation, the corruption, the underhanded plotting, the greed, death and suspicion on every corner, live in peace away from it all, live a pure, honest life without fear of reprisal from every move or decision he makes. He reaches the point where he’s not quite asleep and not quite awake, he’s between worlds.

A knock at the door.

He jolts up from the bed reaches for the drawer and his bullet-less gun. The knock comes again. He aims, his hands shaking a little. He takes a deep breath.

"Come in." The handle turns and the door swings open. All the waiting is finally and definitely over.

A low rent apartment building somewhere downtown. It’s approaching 2 a.m. The rain has let up now, turned into soft drizzle. A car sweeps along, its tyres cutting through the puddles, its rear lights gliding into the distance. A police siren wails in the background. Dim orange streetlight pours down onto this part of the street. A man in a long black coat ambles along, his shoulders huddled, fedora soaked and dripping. He fades into the darkness, appears once more, illuminated by another streetlight. The drone of vehicles permeates from a highway close by. Hills loom above the city, above them a million stars, below them a million streetlights.

Jennifer watches all this from her window. She watches all this sat on her bed. She watches all this cleaning her fingernails. She watches all this wearing a man’s white shirt. She watches all this her long straight black hair tied in a ponytail. She watches all this in the darkness.

A phone booth below rings, the persistent tone disturbs the silence. The ringing intrusive, more apparent. The noise of the city, gentle in the background. She stares down at the phone booth, praying it will stop, praying that someone will answer it. She stares at it with her deep brown eyes, the dark circles underneath showing a heavy tiredness, a history of months and months without sleep. The ringing refuses to stop. Jennifer spins around burying her head in the pillow. She groans in frustration. Lifts her head up, rests her face in the soft white pillow. Bringing her knees up to her stomach she stares vacantly at the alarm clock on the nightstand. The little red lines showing 02:06 a smaller set of red lines displaying the date 14^th May 2000. She closes her eyes thinking about what she has to do tomorrow: A lecture from 9 to 12. Lunch. An appointment with the university doctor at 2 p.m. After that maybe she’ll study in the library before she goes to work. She opens her eyes again, sits up, the phone on the street below continues to ring.

"Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up," she shouts, covering her face with her palms. Taking her hands away she lets out a weary sigh. Swings her legs around, places them on the floor. She grabs the pack of cigarettes laying on the nightstand, lights one up, lets the smoke pour out of her mouth. She watches it dance about the room slowly dispersing into the stale air. The orange glow of the cigarette partially illuminates the room, everything else dark around it. The thick white vapors gently emanate as the tobacco crackles and pops. She takes another drag, the orange tip getting brighter as she inhales. Now, she gives up on the idea of sleep. She remembers faintly getting some hours of rest, light REM sleep, but that was a long time ago, most of the time this is what happens every night. She figures she might as well take advantage of the extra waking hours and gets up from the bed, drifts into her tiny and somewhat grubby kitchen. Ignoring the pile of dirty pots, plates and cutlery she refills her glass of water. Her lounge, small and claustrophobic, wallpaper hanging off the walls in certain places. It hasn’t seen a redecoration since the 70’s. She’s done her best to make the place look nice, a few well-placed movie posters, the odd plant dotted about here and there, but it doesn’t hide that fact that this place is cheap and dirty.

She fingers through her many books on the dilapidated shelf wondering which one would be best to read with her head so thick and tense, her limbs weary and heavy, her eyes struggling to focus. She goes for the thickest, heaviest book on the shelf. Psychology: The Basic Principals of. Before going to the couch she pulls the curtains open a little. The pay phone still rings, another car sweeps by, tires cutting through puddles. She wonders whether to close the open window. It’s a case of either blocking out the noise of the phone or blocking out the fresh air. It’s so close and humid it’s difficult not to sweat, and at this moment Jennifer feels another few beads trickle down her spine. She leaves the window open. The heat is relentless. The small black and white TV in the corner displays snow, illuminating the room in a soft blue light. Jennifer considers switching the light on but likes the atmosphere the TV creates - the naked light bulb is too strong anyway. She crunches out her cigarette in a nearby ashtray, opens the book.

Halfway down the page and she realizes she hasn’t taken any of it in. Once one sentence is read it’s evaporated from memory. She continues, hoping her subconscious will take effect. Her eyes get heavy, the words appear blurry and out of focus, she curls up her legs and rests her head in her palm, elbow on the armrest. Turning the page her eyes fall shut. Gently, she falls into a hazy slumber.

Jennifer jolts her head up, her eyes dart about the room taking in her surroundings. She doesn’t recognize the sound of her phone at first. It persists, demanding an answer. Weary and reluctant she drags herself from the couch, her body heavy with sleep; she can feel every bone creaking under the weight of movement. Before answering the phone she wipes a little drool from the side of her mouth.

"Hello?"

"Hello Jennifer," the hollow monotone voice replies.

"Who is this? And do you know what time it is?"

"I can help you Jennifer."

"Help me? What are you talking about? Help me with what?"

"Your mounting debt, your insomnia, the fact that your studies are suffering because you have to work every night just to survive. I can make all that go away."

"Who is this?"

"I just told you."

"Yeah I know, but who are you? What’s your name? How did you get this number? And why are you calling me at…" she spins around taking a glance at the alarm clock in the bedroom. "Three Thirty in the morning?"

"Take a look in the drawer of your nightstand."

"Why?" Silence, no answer. Jennifer gazes at the bedside table wondering whether to follow his request. A pregnant pause. Curiosity getting the better of her she strides into the bedroom and snaps the drawer open. There, staring back at her - is a key. She reaches inside examining it between her index and forefinger. Plain, nondescript, with a square plastic end, the edges rounded off by design. Flipping it over in her hand she finds no distinguishing marks. "What’s it for?"

"Take a look outside." Jennifer looks to the window, pensive, unsure. She crawls across the bed. Pulls the curtains open. The scene is still the same, the other apartment buildings, the rain washed tarmac, the occasional car sweeping by, all of it bathed in dim orange streetlight. Then there’s the pay phone. Parked next to it - a shiny black Porsche.

"You’re kidding me?"

"It’s yours."

"Why?"

"I want you to get dressed."

"Hang on a minute, you’re giving me a seventy thousand dollar car, I want to know why."

"All in good time. Right now, I want you to get dressed."

"How’d you know I’m not dressed already?" No reply. This makes Jennifer nervous, she looks about the room, for what, she doesn’t know. Still not completely sure of the situation she pulls on a pair of black jeans and slips on some shoes. She picks up the phone again.

"Are you ready?" the monotone voice asks.

"Yes."

"I want you to go out to the car and wait inside." Jennifer is about to speak again, ask for more explanations, but on the other end of the phone, the dead tone.

The rain has stopped now, there’s a strange mist rising from the tarmac, Jennifer wades through it with ease, turning the key over between her fingers, heading for the Porsche. Questions run through her mind with a fevered nature.

She strolls across the courtyard wondering how there’s mist rising from the ground without any sun. She’s still sweating in the humidity, her shirt clinging to her body. She examines the key one last time as she reaches the car. Should she get in? She figures she can’t sleep anyway, might as well see where this takes her. Anxiety filling her bones she slips the key in the lock. Will the key work? Is it an elaborate trick? The door opens. Jennifer remains outside still not sure if she should get inside. She notices something in the passengers seat. A cell phone and what looks like a map. The phone jumps to life with its harsh ring tone. Jennifer looks both ways along the street. Deserted. Just the faded drone of cars and city noise in the distance. She climbs in and picks up the phone.

"Hello Jenny."

"It’s Jennifer. I don’t like being called Jenny."

"Okay, Jennifer. You see the map and the instructions on the passenger seat?"

"Yes." she says, picking up the map.

"Follow the instructions, I’ll call you when you arrive."

"Arrive where? What’s this all about?"

No reply. Jennifer hangs up the phone. She feels ridiculous, like some puppet being lead by a string. She’s half a mind to just get out of the car and go back to her apartment, try to get some sleep, even if it’s only a few hours, but her intrigue gets the better of her. She folds out the map, a large slip of paper falls into her lap, on it, a series of bullet point instructions. At the bottom she sees her destination. A motel just past Barstow on Interstate 15. At most, a two-hour drive. Tossing the instructions aside, she slumps back in the drivers seat, hands resting on the steering wheel. She likes the feeling she gets sitting in the Porsche. A Porsche! She can’t quite believe it’s hers. She shakes her head sharply, for a slight moment her head is relived of the oppressive insomnia, but the strain in her head soon comes back. She notes the time on the dashboard, it blinks 00:00. Shifts her gaze to the mile counter, 000:000:00. Leaning forward she takes a closer look. This can’t be. It should at least have some mileage on the clock. How did the car get here in the first place? It must have been driven to the showroom, then, after purchase, driven down here. What? Did it just appear outside her apartment building? She brushes this gap in logic aside - she just can’t deal with it right now. The engine purrs to life as she turns the key in the ignition. Soft and clean and new. She leaves it ticking over for a moment and checks the first bullet point on the instructions. Still reluctant, still not sure, she waits. She’s going to have to pay for this car, if not with money, then by some other method. But what? It remains ominous and there’s only one way to find out.

The Porsche pulls away joining the deserted street, tyres cutting through the collected puddles.

Neon Lights. Streetlights - orange and white. Other vehicles all weaving in and out and through and straight head, zooming past her. Police lights. Sirens. The soft drone of the other vehicles. Fragmented shouting. The city is alive with noise and light, billboards competing for attention, groups of people on street corners, hanging out. The occasional bum, hobbling along. People loitering outside 24-hour convenient stores. Cops patrolling the street.

Jennifer focuses on the road, finding her way through it all, a mass of human life and man-made things. A certain falseness about it all, unnatural, forced, contrived.

She glances down to the second bullet point - it won’t be long before she hits the I95.

She eases the car into the filter lane and joins the slue of traffic all speeding to… wherever. The consistent drone pierces her skull, a heavy annoyance she can barely take. She flicks through radio stations. Rock, MOR Rock, AOR Rock, Heavy Rock, Talk shows, Hip Hop, R n B, Dance, Country, Jazz, she finally settles on a classical station, finding the music soothing, a relief from all the white noise and the tension in her head. She’s determined to remain alert and focused.

The buildings and the city become less and less prominent. The traffic thins down. The highway becomes lonelier and lonelier, becomes more isolated, less bright, a sense of things fading away. Finally it’s pitch dark.

She’s entered full-blown baron desert. Only the occasion low-beamed headlight sweeping by provides any significant light. The lines in the road stream underneath the car, seemingly endless. She loses herself in her surroundings and her thoughts.

Who was the man on the phone? Why did he give her this car? Why does he want to help her? What does he want in return? Why does he want me to drive all this way? A motel practically in the middle of nowhere. It has to be something bad. Involving drugs maybe, sex, money, all the things you might associate with a situation like this.

Jennifer resolves to put all this speculation to the back of her mind. Focus on the now, on the road, on staying awake. Deal with it on a moment by moment basis, one problem at a time. Thinking too far ahead will cripple her. Fear, anxiety, an inability to act at a crucial moment. At least she’s not tossing and turning in bed, pacing up and down her apartment, her thoughts only on her inability to sleep. She speeds up, hoping the increased engine noise will keep her awake.

A soft rumble heard faintly in the distance. Getting louder and louder, increasing in pitch. Jennifer looks all around. The noise builds and builds to a deafening, thunderous crack, as if the whole planet has split in half. Then, complete silence. Even the noise of her own car has faded away. All she hears, is her own heartbeat, pounding with fear.

"What the hell was that?"

The Porsche glides to the side of the road. She grabs a cigarette and leaves the car. She looks all around. Nothing, not even the slightest glimpse of a distant headlight or rear light, not even the remote flicker of a distant village or town, not even the vague outlines of distant hills and rocks, complete and utter blackness. As well as the silence there’s an eerie stillness in the air, like a vacuum. Smoke pours out of her mouth as she exhales; it remains there for a long, long moment, refusing to disperse. It hangs about, bouncing and dancing.

Another rumble, at first faint and distant, but getting louder. Two small lights emerge from the blackness. The object takes shape. A truck. It’s slowing down, the brakes hissing as it comes to a stop alongside the Porsche.

A gruff and weary looking man in his 40’s appears at the window. Jennifer squints a little, looking across.

"Everything all right?"

"Fine." Jennifer replies, a little wary.

"You’re sure?"

"Positive, thanks anyway."

"No problem. You be careful out here won’t you?"

"I will," she says, inhaling on her cigarette.

Much to Jennifer’s relief the driver starts the truck and pulls away, gliding into the blackness. Why didn’t he ask about that noise? Why didn’t I ask him about it? As Jennifer looks around she notices distant noises, the drone of insects, the vague outlines of hills and rocks, the far away lights of small towns and villages, the stillness in the air evaporated into a slight breeze. She’s releived everything has returned to normal, but disconcerted all the same. What the hell just happened? Everything about this night remains inexplicable. A slight chill comes over her, she decides to continue on to the motel, at least she might be able to get some rest.

The Porsche continues, gliding along the highway. Jennifer lights up another cigarette, focused on the road ahead. Her surroundings isolated, dead and black.

She notices the clock at the center of the dashboard. It’s not blinking anymore. 00:32. The clock must be wrong, she was sure it was getting close to 3 a.m. when she left. It couldn’t have started from when she set off, but she’s sure, she’s been on the road for more than half an hour. The insomnia must be playing tricks on her. She’s heard about people experiencing hallucinations after prolonged time without sleep, but has yet to prove it in her own mind. Sure, the night had been weird and incompressible, but hallucinations? She glances down to the dashboard, checking her speed. She’s confounded even more on seeing the mile counter. It now reads: 080,710-76. She’s definitely not driven that kind of distance.

Staring at the road ahead the yellow lines stream underneath the car, illuminated by the high-beamed headlights. Her eyes feel heavy, her head thick. The monotonous drone of tires rolling on tarmac, hypnotic, grabbing hold of her consciousness, lulling her into drowsiness. She wishes she were at home in bed. Sure, out here she gets sleepy. As the moment comes, just when she’s about to give in to the drowsiness, a sound grips her so loud and so overwhelming she has no choice but to remain awake.

Another car screams past, it’s horn screeching for all it’s worth. Jennifer jolts the steering wheel left. The Porsche glides and swerves off the road onto the adjacent desert and bushes. There’s over-steer, there’s under-steer. She struggles with the wheel, trying to compensate. The tyres slack grip on the rough surface cause the Porsche to slide and drift. She slams her foot down on the brakes and comes to a complete stop.

Panting heavily, adrenaline pumping through her every vein, her nervous shaken almost beyond repair, she calms a little and regains her bearings. Up ahead, not 300 yards away - a motel. The neon sign luminous green, tasteless. The parking lot bathed in artificial light. But she hasn’t reached Barstow yet, has she? She recomposes herself, her body and mind regaining normality. Things just aren’t adding up, everything defies rational thought and logic.

Tumbleweed glides across the surface highlighted by the Porsche’s headlights in front. Stillness in the air, it gives way a soft breeze, low in pitch, humming strangely. A sense of peace and calm all around.

Jennifer almost screams out loud, her body recoils, jolts, as the cell phone’s harsh ring tone jumps to life. She grabs the phone.

"Look, just what the fucking hell is going on here?" She demands.

"I see you’ve arrived."

"Yeah, whatever. If I don’t get an explanation for all the shit that’s been happening I’m just going to walk home."

"Open the glove compartment."

"No. I want an explanation."

"Open the glove compartment!" His voice forceful and demanding.

Jennifer remains silent, holding the phone to her ear.

She leans across, snaps the glove compartment open and sitting there, bold and obvious, a gun.

"What’s that for?" Jennifer demands.

"Do you still want the car?"

"What’s the gun for?"

"Take it out of the glove compartment."

"Not until you tell me what it’s for." She says, sick of the endless run around and the avoidance of her questions.

"There’s something else inside."

Reluctant, she does as he asks, tossing the gun on the passengers seat. She hunts around and finds - another key. This one longer and silver.

"That is the key to your new home."

"Excuse me?"

"A house, it’s yours, I’d show you it, but we don’t have time."

"Now will you tell me what I have to do?"

"Call your bank and ask for a balance."

This stumps Jennifer and once again she asks.

"Why?"

The dead tone.

Jennifer quickly dials the number, rushes through the automated voice commands and options. She punches in her password, her account number, she waits.

"Your current balance is Two million, five hundred and seventy dollars and three cents."

She sits there stunned, the automated voice reeling off more options. This isn’t real, it can’t be. It must be a dream. I’ve fallen asleep on my couch and this is only a dream. She hangs up the phone resolving to play along, sure she’ll wake up in the morning, sure that all this will be a distant and stupid memory.

The phone rings once more.

"Did you check your account?"

"Yes. Now what the hell do you want from me?" She says, making sure her tone of voice and mood remain the same.

"In the motel, Room seven, is a man. His name is Lyle. He’s expecting you. I want you to go to that room and knock on the door. Enter the room and shoot him dead. That will be all. Leave the motel, leave this place, go to your new house, in your new car and forget this ever happened. Relay the incident to no one. You will not be traced, no evidence will lead the police to you, everything will be taken care of."

Jennifer sits back, thinks a moment.

"This is just too stupid for words, who the hell are you anyway, offering me all this and why me? Is this one of those stupid TV shows? I’m being set up aren’t I?

"Leave the car where it is and walk to the motel."

"And if I don’t, what happens then?"

"You go back to your old life. Living in that low rent apartment, pacing up and down all-night long with your insomnia. You get up in the morning struggle to concentrate at lectures. When they’re done you go to work in that bar, you get hit upon by sleazy guy after sleazy guy and you will do this every night and everyday. You don’t get anywhere in your studies and end up taking a full time job at that bar. It’s the only option you have, it’s all you have left. And you will do this for the rest of your living days. Always struggling and always short on money. Or, you do this for me and your life changes in an instant. The choice remains yours." A long pause. "And if you don’t do what I’m asking and you take any of the things on offer, there will be very grave consequences." The dead tone rings through Jennifer ears. She grabs the gun - her cigarettes – her lighter and bolts out of the Porsche. She slams the door and charges across the uneven desert ground, bounding toward the motel.

Another Truck rumbles by on the adjacent road and she stops dead in her tracks, self-conscious. She lights the cigarette, inhales, the smoke oddly gentle on her lungs, relaxes her. She paces up and down taking long pulls on the cigarette. Desperate, weary, haggard, disheveled, lost, caught between the two options.

This is stupid, I can’t kill anyone, I’ve never even held a gun before, let alone shoot one. If I were being honest and sensible I’d go back home right now, take the Porsche and leave it where I found it, back to my low rent apartment with the paint peeling off the walls, back to the insomnia consumed nights, long and arduous. Back to my studies, back to my job. Maybe I’ll just go see what this Lyle guy looks like, maybe talk to him, say hello. But that’ll be as far as it goes. I’ll knock on the door and say hello. I should at least check out what he looks like.

She’s intrigued by it all, the mystery, the cloak and dagger, a seedy underbelly she’s never touched or seen before, except in movies. How does it all look and feel in reality? Surely the clichés can’t be true.

Jennifer tucks the gun into the back of her jeans, it rests awkwardly at the small of her back. The cold metal refreshing against her damp sweaty skin. She walks on slowly, almost silently.

Room 7. The door pale red, sun burned. Jennifer stands just before it separated by the decking. Looking to her left she sees the main office. Through a small window, a 20 something Red Indian gently dozes in his chair. A car growls behind her, parks up. She snaps a look backward as the tyres crunch underneath the loose gravel. Another Red Indian man, this one in his late 40’s with long silver white hair. He exits the car with a soft smile directed toward Jennifer. She smiles back with more than a little paranoia. The Indian says nothing and walks on toward the main office. He carries a strange sense of wonderment. His movements seem odd, almost static and fragmented. Jennifer shakes her head, waking herself up. A naked light bulb above her crackles and spits, flickering on and off. Stillness in the air. She looks back to the door. I’m just saying hello, that’s all, get a look at him, introduce myself, maybe share a drink. God knows she needs one. Her hand hovers over the gun at the small of her back. Lifting it out, it hangs heavy and awkward in her hand. She steps forward full of anticipation, her free hand gently gripping the door handle. Reluctant, afraid, nervous to say the least. Beside herself she knocks on the door, turns the handle and steps inside.

At the threshold of the door she freezes on the spot. She gazes into the barrel of the gun Lyle aims at her. Lyle stares into her eyes with an intensity she can barely take. Silence between them, both holding their ground, not quite sure of the other. Lyle’s harsh and intense expression drops, falls into a look of recognition, of disbelief.

"Jennifer?"

He lowers the gun. Jennifer remains silent fearful of the fact that he knows her name. Has she been set up? She grips the gun tighter.

"How do you know my name?"

Silence, Lyle glares at her, lost and confused. Jennifer with the same confusion, but expectant of an answer.

"We were married for three years."

"You must have me confused with someone else. I’ve never been married. Never even laid eyes on you before." Her forefinger hovers over the trigger. She grips the gun tighter and tighter growing ever more wary, frightened and suspicious. A trail of sweat runs down her back, beads collect on her forehead. Silence grips the air.

Lyle gets up from his seat and the breath in Jennifer’s lungs freezes for a moment. She steps back defensive almost raising the gun.

"You were born in Seattle, you were at university, UCLA, studying some psychology degree. Then you dropped it all and became an actress. I produced your first movie an independent called The Drifter."

Jennifer takes another step backward.

"I’ve never been an actress, well I take a few classes, but nothing more than that."

Lyle moves closer, determined not to let her slip through his fingers again.

"Please, can you keep your distance?"

Lyle freezes where he stands.

"I can’t believe you don’t remember, have you just erased me from memory?"

"There’s nothing to erase. I don’t know you."

"Then why are you here?" Lyle asks.

She remains silent not wanting to relay her strange story.

"How do you know all that stuff about me?"

"Well apparently I don’t."

"No the born in Seattle part and the fact I’m studying psychology."

"Because we were married."

"Stop saying that." The insomnia is finally getting the better of her. Her head simply cannot wrap itself around the situation. She’s lost in the fragments of facts contradicting themselves with the truth. A sharp pain jolts through her head, she clutches at it with her hand.

"You all right?"

"I’m fine, I’m leaving, this is just too… too… weird."

She spins around. Lyle jumps forward, reaches out for her arm.

"Don’t go, please. Forget what I said, pretend this is the first time we’ve met, two perfect strangers." The look in his eye, pleading and desperate. Jennifer frees her arm from his grip

"Pretend? But we haven’t met before."

"Please just stay a while, just talk to me."

She considers him for a long moment.

"I have to go." Lyle charges forward. In that split second moment Jennifer raises the gun, squeezes the trigger. The shot echoes around the room with a dull crack. Lyle recoils, stumbling backwards his hand held over the bloody hole in his chest. He struggles for breath, almost choking. Confusion and disbelief fill his face. He stumbles further back, into the wicker chair. Blood pools at his mouth, dribbling onto his chin. Jennifer watches all this detached and cold, numb. Lyle gazes at her delirious, holding on to his last moments.

Jennifer closes the door firmly. Looks around. In the main office she sees the young Red Indian pick up the phone and dial a number. Behind him, the older Indian stares right at Jennifer, they hold each other’s gaze for a long moment, a certain knowingness between them. He takes the phone from the younger one and replaces the receiver. Jennifer doesn’t wait and runs across the parking lot, her feet pounding on the tarmac, the gun heavy in her hand. The terrain changes, the ground uneven, loose sand and gravel unearthed beneath her feet. Panting heavily, fear and panic gripping her being, she reaches the Porsche, her Porsche. She fumbles in her pocket with one hand, the other still holding the gun. She tosses the gun out into the blackness and finds the key.

The engine rumbles and roars, the headlights blink on. The Porsche wheel-spins and slides a full 180 degrees, it accelerates, joining the highway. The rear lights gleam red in the blackness, like two eyes. They drift gently hovering, eventually consumed by the night.

The Porsche, Jennifer’s Porsche races through the blackness that is the I95, the yellow separating lines stream underneath the car, never-ending. Jennifer’s thoughts race through paranoia, guilt and regret. She can’t believe what she’s done.

It wasn’t real, it’s just a dream, any minute now I’ll wake up in my bed and this will all be a distant memory. But she doesn’t, she just keeps driving.

It was an act of self-defense; he would’ve killed me given half the chance.

As much as she tries to justify it to her herself, her motives seem small and unrealistic and unsettling. The simple fact of the matter is – she can’t justify it, she’s a killer and she killed someone.

The insomnia begins to fade, she feels drowsy and exhausted. Her eyelids heavy, she struggles to keep her eyes focused on the road.

The Porsche slows down, drifts right. Comes to a stop at the side of the highway. Jennifer exits the Porsche smoking a cigarette, pacing up and down in an attempt to wake herself. She hears a soft rumble behind her, increasing in volume. On looking backward she sees two headlights cutting through the blackness. Another truck. It’s brakes hiss and whir as it comes to a stop opposite Jennifer and her Porsche.

A gruff and weary looking man in his 40’s appears at the window. Jennifer squints a little, looking across.

"Everything all right?" She’s caught off guard, incredulous. It can’t be the same driver, can it?

"Didn’t you stop by here an hour ago?"

"No." The driver peers at her confused and a little suspicious. "I think I would’ve remembered if I had." He states in a dismissive tone. "Are you okay?"

"Fine." Jennifer replies, a little wary.

"You’re sure?"

"Positive, thanks anyway."

"No problem. You be careful out here won’t you?"

"I will," she says, inhaling on her cigarette.

The driver puts his truck in gear and pulls away. Jennifer watches the rear lights fade into the distance, perplexed. She checks the time on the dashboard of the Porsche - 00:14. Steps back in even more confusion.

What time was it when I left the motel? I’m sure it was getting close to 1am. What the fuck is going on here!

She resists the urge to scream for all she’s worth. Her mind races once more, trying to figure it all out. There are no answers to her questions. Then that strange stillness permeates, like a vacuum. She looks around, there is nothing but complete blackness, the distant lights on the horizon have seemingly vanished into thin air. She was sure they were there before. She looks to her cigarette, the butt smoldering on the tarmac. It trembles on the ground. A soft rumble permeates, like the beginnings of an earthquake. It gets louder and louder and louder. Culminating in an enormous deafening crack, as if the world had been put back together again. Then silence, a soft breeze, the lights on the horizon have returned.

On arriving home she spots a small manila envelop laid on her doormat. Her name handwritten across the front, her full name. Jennifer Rebecca Theroux. Inside she finds an address written on a small piece of paper. A rather upscale address in the Hills. Underneath a small handwritten note.

Thank you Jennifer, your reward as promised. Enjoy your new life.

Jennifer ponders the note for a moment before going inside.

Seated on her couch she stares once more at the address. Her body feels heavy with exhaustion, her eyes drift closed and she falls into a world of dreams.

Over the next four years, in her new house, her new car, her new career, that incident plays heavily on her mind. She tries to push the guilt, the regret and the paranoia to the back of her mind, but all the time it niggles at her. Nothing feels quite right with the world. Every object seems misplaced, every person she meets, irregular. Everyday she has the same thought.

I shouldn’t be here, this is wrong.

Despite these thoughts she continues, what can she do to change it? Besides she likes her job, she likes the attention, she likes the money, she likes the people around her. She’s made it, where so many others fail. She can’t just throw it all away, a lot of people depend on her, she has a responsibility to those people.

Now sitting in a small out of the way coffee shop, these thoughts, these feelings have faded, almost to the point where the whole incident feels like an elaborate dream, she’s comfortable, she’s put it behind her, it never happened.

The sun rises above the city; cars and vehicles drift slowly by, all is calm, all is bright. A waiter approaches Jennifer’s table. He carries a nervous excitement and he’s almost spilling the coffee. Jennifer smiles at him as he places it on her table.

"Excuse me, aren’t you, erm, aren’t you Jennifer Theroux."

"Yes I am."

"I love your show, I watch it all the time."

"Why thank you."

"Could I get your autograph?"

"Sure." An awkward silence. "Do you have anything for me to sign?"

"Oh of course, I’m so stupid." The waiter glances around, grabs a copy of Variety laid on the next table. He hands her a pen. And she signs it. While doing so she notices a small article on the front page.

Movie Producer Commits Suicide in Barstow Motel

A flash of recognition. She looks to the newspaper again, scans the article. Lyle Polaire a prominent film producer was found dead last night in a motel in Barstow, police have determined it a suicide. The article goes on, recording his brief career. Jennifer reads aghast unable to believe the events of last night were real and not some elaborate dream. Out of the corner of her eye she notices the date of the newspaper. May 14^th 2004.

"Is everything alright Ms Theroux?"

She looks to the waiter’s concerned face for a brief moment. She signs the magazine and hands it to the waiter.