Every Street, Chapter 11

--See previous chapters for notes--

He found himself back on the highway, with no place to go, some hours later. Although he knew he should be resting to give his injuries time to recover, he felt compelled just to keep driving all night. He didn't feel tired, and he just wanted to run as far as he could from everything behind him. He'd left Jack with his Cubs cap, and given him a fake telephone number because he had nothing tangible to reassure the boy that they could keep in contact. He wouldn't have minded staying in touch with him, but he really didn't see how - cutting all ties was the only way to break free, and it had to be done. He pressed on the gas pedal below his foot a bit harder, watching the gas gauge behind the wheel. He'd have to stop and fill up shortly. Eyes peeled for gas station signs, he put some jazz music on and hummed a little. Darkness was wrapping the area like a cloak, spreading out over the fields and trees and the highway ahead, with only the sharp beams of car headlights to interrupt the flow. It was these bright beams that caught the reflection of a Texaco station sign in the distance and propelled the image to the back of Doug's eyes. He pulled in in due course and filled the tank himself. He was back on the highway in less than five minutes, a pack of sandwiches, a bottle of water and a pack of beers his new passengers. He didn't stop driving until the sun rose the following morning and his injuries cried out for a break. He pulled over onto a grassy verge by the side of the road, parking the car high enough up it for any other cars to pass by with no trouble, and tilted his seat back as far as it would go. Putting a bunched up shirt over his eyes to block out the light, Doug fell into a fitful sleep.

He awoke only a few hours later as a tanker rumbled past, spewing fumes into the atmosphere and Doug's car. He coughed once, not liking the stabs of pain in his stomach enough to want to clear his lungs again, and cranked the seat to a more upright position. Despite the twinging of the nerves in his abdomen wall, he felt considerably better regarding his wounds. He lifted his shirt to check the dressing and reached into the backseat for a clean one. Pulling a face at the state of the gashed and bruised skin, he ripped off the old dressing and put the new one on, then carefully fingered the side of his neck where the sutures were holding him together. It didn't feel too bad, like it was healing slowly. The sutures were neat as well, maybe he'd lucked out with that intern. No matter how neat, he could still visualise the scar he'd have in a few weeks time. All he'd need would be a big bolt to attach to it, and he'd have a great Halloween get up. He rubbed a bruise on his ribcage and yawned, stretching as much as the car would let him before he took out the other sandwich he'd left the night before. It was damp and unappetising, but he ate it anyway, opening a beer to follow it up when he saw that all the water had gone. After a couple of moments to collect his thoughts and establish where he wanted to go, he settled on the vague idea of the New Orleans region - it must have been that music, he thought - he turned the key and got back on the road once more.

He had reached the Mississippi Delta by the evening, and was following the highway towards the coastline as the sun set over the near-deserted road. He had opted to get off the Interstate before the approach to New Orleans so he could avoid the Mardi Gras celebrations and enjoy the countryside some more, and there were few other people with the same idea it seemed. He was cruising at reasonable speed, looking out towards the distant horizon where the Gulf of Mexico was glittering in the subtle light, and sipping a beer, when his vision started to blur. Initially putting it down to the bugs and dust in the air from the cotton fields, he rubbed each eye alternately, but nothing changed. He blinked hard and rubbed again, shaking his head from side to side. When he looked back up and failed to identify the sharp bend in the road, the Jeep careered off the highway and slumped down into a ditch, the front hitting the far slope and slamming Doug's head into the steering wheel. His belongings in the backseat shot forward and the cardboard box tipped its contents onto the floor. On the passenger seat, empty food packets slipped onto the mat and under the dashboard, and three empty beer bottles dropped off onto the stick shift and smashed. Smoke rose from the car bonnet, which had crumpled up from the impact and the back wheels spun in the skid marks their front counterparts had made. On the road behind, the car had disappeared from view, and the passing Chevrolet and its driver failed to notice the damaged automobile and the unconscious body inside.

It could have been the noise that woke him, or the dampness, in the end. A short sharp thundercloud burst above and the rain trickled into the car through the open window and the sunroof, dripping onto Doug's head and shoulders. His left side absorbed rainwater that showered in from the open window, and a solitary drop ran by itelf down the length of a crack in the windshield. Doug's lips moved in a soundless cry and he was aware of the sound of the rain before he could open his eyes to see it. When he did lift his heavy eyelids, all he saw was the black rubber cover of the steering wheel, so close and distorted that for a moment he wondered if he had gone blind. His right arm, previously flopped at his side, moved as if of its own accord to the dash board and then his cheekbone, groping to feel where the pain was coming from but not hitting the mark. Still leaning against the wheel, Doug turned his head sideways so he looked out of the window. It was raining, that had been the noise. And he was in a field, somewhere and there were clouds passing by overhead...his left arm was cold, especially his fingers. Making an effort he lifted it from where it hung and found his fingers wet - they had been sitting in a collected puddle of rainwater. With an intense burst of concentration, he raised both hands to the wheel and pushed himself upright, his head lolling a bit from side to side, chin to chest as he stuggled to come to terms with the new position and the angle at which he sat. He was tipped forward, the force of gravity wanting to make his upper body lean against the wheel more than ever. Looking slowly and carefully around out of both windows, he could see the surrounding land at an angle, the tall grass leaning backwards. He pressed a hand to his head where it really throbbed and felt a bump the size of an egg underneath. Taking the hand away to peer at it, he found blood smeared across it. Thinking it was from his head he used the other hand to feel again but it came away clean. He studied his right hand again and saw that it was the skin there that was cut in lines, a small shard of glass stuck in one. He pulled it out, gritting his teeth slightly as he did so, then wiped his hand down the shirt he was wearing absent-mindedly. His head really was pulsating. He needed to get out of the car. Yanking as hard as he could in his weakened state at the door handle, it cracked open and he pushed his body weight against it until it creaked open some more and he slid out. He'd crashed. The front end of the Jeep was rammed into the far bank of a ditch, the rest of the car lying at a twenty five degree angle as the rear wheels balanced on the other bank. His windshield was cracked across the middle, and the passenger window glass had fallen out completely. Taking in the situation, through the cotton wool around his brain, he touched the bonnet of the car where it had creased on impact, then took a step back. A glance around confirmed he was definitely alone, and holding one hand in the other he scaled the bank of the ditch to be certain that there was no one driving past either. He went back down to the car, feeling the lump on his head some more. Peering in through the windows, he saw his packing spread liberally on the floor and reached in, picking out a cloth to wrap his hand up. Rubbing his face with the good arm, he looked into the driver's seat and tried to remember what had happened. All he could remember was driving and seeing the sea in the distance - after that, nothing. He suddenly noticed the glass, smashed pieces lying around the stick shift and looked at his hand, making the conclusion about how he got cut. But where had the glass come from? Reaching over the seat he brushed some of the glass around, and picked out a rounded cylinder of glass, complete but snapped from a bottle. The recollection of buying beer at some point came back to him and he sat down on the grassy slope. Had he had the beer and then crashed? Had he been driving under the influence, something that could not only have killed him but anyone else who got in his way? Remembering his own father's death, thoughts flew arond his mind faster than he could process them. He ran a hand through his short hair, brushing the rain out of it now the cloud had passed. Remembering his previous injuries as he did it, he felt around his jaw and his front, thankful that he hadn't ripped open the sutures on his neck - if he lost blood in large quantities out here, he would have been dead in a matter of hours. He thought back again to the reckless behaviour that had lead him to this position, and fingered the bandage under his shirt. He could dimly recall soemthing the doctor had told him...something he should have known as well. He wasn't meant to drink any alcohol within 36 hours of the fight because of the amount of blood he'd lost then...he put two and two together and realised that he hadn't been driving over the limit, or at least it was unlikely. Instead, he'd presumed he was okay and recovered enough to be able to drink. Just the one beer had probably gone straight to his head, he thought. He looked at his car, and then back down at his feet. However he'd ended up here, he was still in a mess.

Doug sat on the edge of the cliff, overlooking the Gulf. It was a clear night and the moon was riding high, it's reflection fractured by the rise and fall of the water below. Every so often, a soft chugging sound would signify the departure of yet another fishing boat going out for the night's catch, and as yet none had returned. Fingers of the sea reached across the small bar of sand at the foot of the cliff, wiping down the beach as they were pulled back out again. The air was still and Doug sat in it, watching the waves and the boats. He had a sweater, dropped in a pile next to him, and the grass flattened underneath it but sprung up around the edges like it had been there forever. It was one of the things he had chosen to rescue from his car, and walk with across the fields until he reached the place he was now. Between his hands, resting on his lap, Doug held a small, red clay tub like a lifeline. In the tub was the bright green spiky plant that had travelled with him from Chicago, and although it was minus a large proportion of the soil it was previously planted in, it was still alive and looked as fresh as the day Carol had presented him with it. Doug stopped to wonder every so often, what people would think if they came across him, sitting on the cliff edge, holding a potted cactus. But mostly his mind was elsewhere, thinking about Chicago, about Carol, about Charlie, about Jack. He'd hurt so many in such a small amount of time, and thinking back over the last year hurt him - he didn't want to acknowledge where he'd been, where he'd ended up, and what he'd become. But there he was, with only himself to face up to now. He knew if he didn't now, then there would be no way out - a downward spiral to a sorry ending. He had to admit to himself that he couldn't go on, and that somewhere there was a gaping vacuum inside him he had to fix. Trying to drink it away, that hollow feeling, trying to get over it with as many women as possible, was not the answer, it couldn't be the answer any more. He didn't want to die on a dusty road somewhere, with a blood alcohol level sky high and his face smashed by a car engine, a hooker in the backseat. He had been on that road, heading at full speed in that direction, but now was the time to make a u turn. Now, with his stab wounds and his crash injuries, his Elvis t-shirt and his jazz CD. Now was the time. He was going to go back home and find Carol and close the sucking perforation within his soul.

©Triggersaurus 2001