Crucify Then Learn

by schmaebls

Summary:

Dragged to Sable, Texas– 2,500 people, two hours from the Oklahoma-Texas border, right in the panhandle– by two men in a truck is not the ideal experience, but you did it anyway. It doesn’t help that you ran a man over the night before and were more or less alright with it.

(or, a slendermansion fic based in the middle of nowhere Texas, where your roommates are weird but the townsfolk are even weirder, especially that white church down the road that doesn’t stand for God anymore.)

(or, x2, you and the other creeps get real close and freaky and there’s a cult terrorizing the town, and you guys have to stop it even though it’s a lot of work.)

Notes:

None of these characters belong to me, they belong to their creators. All I own is the plot. And, yes, I know that Masky and Hoodie are NOT Creepypasta characters, but they’re here anyway because of how intertwined they are with the fandom. These are also my personal interpretations of these characters in this environment, do not read this with any expectations. Heavy Timothy Wright x Reader but the reader will still have important and romantic relationships with the others. Thank you, my dear friend Julien, for beta reading. Thank you, Vix, for their medical knowledge.

Chapter 1: 20 hours won't print my picture milk carton size

The street is dark, wet and hot like it’s breathing you in. Wet trees and wet skin and wet tires: a human mouth, aiming for all-consumption. You can feel your sweat dripping through your clothes, pooling like disgusting and nervous puddles. It seeped through the car doors and clung to the seats.

Your hands gripped the steering wheel tight albeit clumsy; knuckles white, stretching over the leather. Oregon never got this humid– so why did you feel so sticky? Sticky, gross, porous.

You only felt the impact of it all– head thrashing forward, heart in your mouth– and the sickeningly sweet crunch of his body rolling under the car. Like shaking the earth, like rocking the boat. Your stomach didn’t even twist, either, it just laid flat.

Before you could register your actions, though, you uncurled your right hand from the wheel and grabbed the gear shift. Reverse, forward, reverse, forward– on some sort of fucked up autopilot.

He seemed to fit right under you, perfect in his place underneath the metal and oil. And, when you drove over him for the last time, he seemed to lay flat, too. Tires caked in his sinew and blood and bones, crushed beneath the ton.

There were no noises, no sounds, no comfort or anger– just quiet, and it felt like the only time he ever shut the fuck up.

–

2 AM at the gas station. Your hands– still wet, still sticky, oddly even– grasped for your carton of cigarettes in your purse. You pull one out, holding it in your mouth by your teeth while fishing for a lighter (miraculously finding it in the dark, 3 seconds). Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale (reverse, forward, reverse, forward).

Your back cools on the brick wall with chipping paint and random stains– your front facing outwardly towards the night, towards the world, towards your car parked in front of you.

Why is it that your heart has jumped back to its rightful place in your chest? Why did the sounds of a human body snapping under you not startle you as much as it should? It’s…not like you didn’t feel guilty for killing a man, but you didn’t feel guilty for killing this man. Not when his breath touched your neck late at night, hot and humid and foul. Not when he waited for you to get off of work, shoulders digging into the pillars that held your Walgreens building up. No, you couldn’t ever feel guilty for the person you killed, just the fact you killed one in the first place.

(Right?)

Cleanup wasn’t easy, either. You had to drive down the road, a half mile or so, to get on your knees with some old water bottles and wash away his insides from your tires. It did as much as you expected, draining in the cracks of concrete and asphalt a red that turned pink as the minutes went by. Then you had to go back for the body, or the parts that were still there, and wrap it in a dirty blanket from your trunk and toss it in the creek next to you.

You obviously didn’t have any sort of plan, or knowledge, on how to clean up a crime scene. You didn’t really care, either, because you knew the second you got home you’re leaving this state.

–

Maybe, you are a terrible person. Maybe, the things that unravel in the back of your mind hold some weight. But, you’re only terrible in the ways that don’t matter, right?

You killed a man. You took your car and ran him over again and again. You didn’t stop, you didn’t think that what you were doing was fucked up, because you know it wasn’t. Though the eyes that reflect in your rearview mirror don’t feel like your own.

–

Your apartment feels worse than your stuffy car. It’s suffocating, like cotton balls and bubble wrap, squeezing against your skin to the point you want to claw out of it.

Navigating around the place, you grab your two duffle bags and put everything you’ll need inside of it. You don’t do it in a hurry– instead, you crawl around like a wounded soldier, taking your time to relish in the pain of the fact that you’ll have to uproot your life once again, and no one will be there to soften the blow of landing flat on your back in a place you will never really exist.

Even more thoughts run through your head: will the cops care, and if they do, what do you do? Will you be found immediately, in another town, and your efforts will be for nothing? Worse, were you always going to end up here?

When you finish packing– it felt like it took hours, but it only took 20 minutes– you sit down. Your couch is comfortable enough.

Sometimes, you wish you believed in God, and, if you prayed hard enough, He’ll hear you and take the pain away.

–

You’re only three hours out of the place you once called home (for a short, sweet six months at least). The sun is growing higher in the sky and blankets the ground in some sort of fog. It’s not as wet anymore, the further south you drive, and it’s a stark reminder that you are a different person now. It’s also a reminder that you need to get more gas, caffeine, and a motel.

The next small town you hit is where you decide you’ll be staying. It barely has any buildings, no fast food or chain businesses. The buildings blur together in a sea of browns and reds and greens and you pay no mind to the early risers walking down the street– they stare like they know you don’t belong.

–

The motel room is stale.

A small bed on the right of the room, facing the even smaller TV on the left, with brown blankets and brown sheets, occupies most of the space. Then, there’s a cramped bathroom at the back. These are the only things that matter to you, and any other detail is tucked to the furthest parts of your mind for another time.

It’s early morning now, probably 7 A.M. (but you’re not too sure, the skies from night to day have become one), and all you want to do is shower and sleep. Sleep, mostly, you want to curl up and sleep until you can’t because it’s been a horrendous 24 hours of waking up and working and then running a man over and hiding his body and– it’s been a horrendous 24 hours.

Your bags fall to the ground in a huff, like they’re telling you they’re disappointed in your choices, but you don’t even care– you’re kicking your shoes off and crawling under the thin, stained covers.

–

The truck is wet, coated in a layer of humidity. The windows are fogging, the torn up cushions are damp, and Tim can feel the sweat roll down the back of his neck.

They’ve been sitting here for hours– sitting, watching, groaning about their asses hurting– with not one singular sighting of you. Tim doesn’t even really know what he’s supposed to be watching out for, just that He felt something…off and now him and Brian are in fucking Oregon of all places. Why is he here, twiddling his thumbs, waiting for some small black car to show up? What’s the point? He can’t seem to give a shit when there’s been no reason to. The payoff better be worth it, because he’s quite literally sticking to the seats.

But, of course, once he’s knee deep into his internal groveling, said car shows up. It parks on the right side of the road, and after it a man comes running. He looks dirty, sleazy, and Tim’s eyes can immediately pick up on what’s happening, at least in some capacity. Brian’s eyes catch it too, Tim can tell, because he crosses his arms and turns his full attention to the scene in front of them.

The dirty, sleazy man stops in front of the car. The driver side window rolls down, your head pops out, and they can hear the sounds of yelling and pleading. You’re screaming out your window, probably telling this guy to move out of the fucking way and stop following me before I call the cops but Tim can’t quite make it out. He can just barely see your mouth moving, albeit awkwardly (considering they are parked on the other side of the road, but further behind), and it just won’t stop.

The screams fall on deaf ears, though, because the man just places his hands on top of your hood with a challenging glare. He doesn’t believe a word you say, but Tim does, and that’s when you roll your window back up and run him over (reverse, forward, reverse, forward).

Brian and Tim share a glance, not entirely surprised but confused, because they still don’t know why they’re even watching this.

…

Well, okay, that confusion lasts about five more seconds until there’s a high-pitched ringing in their ears, and with it comes the instinct to clean it up.

Tim’s hands shake in an unwanted desperation to do just that, but he holds them together instead, because suddenly you're driving off (very slowly, might he add). No way you’re just, leaving that body there? Brian’s eyes meet his again, with an understanding that they should probably take their time with this, no matter what He wants.

Tim’s unsteady hands grip the door handle and push it open, stepping out of the driver’s side of the truck with practiced quietness and heading to the bed. Brian steps out a moment after him.

On the driver’s side of the bed, Tim digs around to find the one thing that could possibly help them– a black trash bag, filled with cleaning supplies and even more (folded) black trash bags. There’s a shovel in the bed, too, and Brian is picking it up before Tim can blink. He hauls the bag out and places it on the ground next to him, digging through it for some rags and bleach and whatever else he needs.

But then the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and his body tenses.

It’s like he’s been dunked in a pot of boiling water, warm and hot and hotter, crawling up his arms and legs and creeping into his chest. Never has he felt this kind of burn, not even in the nastiest of work or weather. He’s so hot he’s nauseous, stomach churning, and it brings him to his knees. The urge to rub himself raw lingers under his skin, but he knows better.

The burn doesn’t subside, and suddenly Brian is kneeling in front of him with a twisted sort of expression– even more confused, even more clueless. A firm hand on his shoulder breaks him slightly free of this pain, trying to shake him out of it. There’s a rustle of wind on the other side of the street, and Tim feels his body start to cool down.

Brian is still shaking him, but his stomach turns back to normal and he can finally meet the other’s eyes.

“Man, the fuck is goin’ on?” Brian asks, voice cutting through the leftover heat. Tim just stares, partly irritated but mostly just shocked, because he can’t even answer the question if he wanted to. His hands squeeze the denim of his jeans, wiping off the sweat, and tries to regain control.

“I got no idea,” Tim answers after a beat, strained yet honest, “but it felt like I was on fire, or somethin’. I don’t really know how else to describe it.”

–

Underneath only the moonlight, Tim sits back in the truck. They’re watching you, again– standing at the front of the convenience store, cigarette in your mouth– and he can’t help but wonder why you would show your face near any public area after all that happened. Why leave a trail, aren’t you running? From the other side of the parking lot, he stares. He bores holes into you like it’s his job (because, it really is) and feels the gears turn in his head.

You don’t seem tight, wound up, or even upset, and his hands feel for his own pack of Marlboros in his jacket pocket. In all of his years (just thinking that makes him feel…old), he’s never seen many people this composed after a first kill, accidental or not. They usually shake and reach for the humanity they lost, but you stand under the light like it’s just another stressful night of rude customers and ruder coworkers, like you belong there.

Tim’s shoulder’s lock up, so he cranks his window down and lights his own cigarette.

–

Your apartment is small and blends together with the rest of the buildings on the block. They’re still in the goddamn truck, waiting for you to start your getaway, but it’s like you’re taking your sweet time gathering your shit. Tim is really wishing for you to pick up the pace, at least a little bit, so they can get back to Utah (with you in tow) without raising suspicion– the longer you take, the quicker the cops will come.

The back of his neck is still warm, and he really doesn’t know if it’s some sort of lingering affect from whatever the fuck happened earlier or if it’s just the Oregon weather (but, he knows that doesn’t make too much sense). It’s grinding on his nerves, cracking down on his bones, more than tonight even warrants.

–

Brian’s driving now.

They’ve been following you the last couple hours, trying to see where you’re going to end up. It has felt like one, long, straight line down the state through small towns and empty roads. Where are you going? Where do you think you can go? There’s no escaping what you’ve done, so Tim doesn’t know why you’re even trying– it’s useless.

Maybe, when they can finally get out of this truck, he’ll think about it some more.

–

Brian leaves Tim in the motel parking lot to grab them a room. He watched as you practically barreled into your own room, exhaustion heavy in your features. They’ll let you sleep, because they need it too. The drive to Oregon took only a day but it was long and tiring and they would rather not have to drag your ass back when none of you have really rested. Better to avoid a disaster, he guesses.

He takes another cigarette out, lights it, and smokes. Leaning against the truck, his back loosens the tiniest amount– no longer hot, no longer looking over his shoulder, no longer checking the cars behind him. He feels far enough away from the mess you (unknowingly) pulled them into to breathe in the morning air and tobacco. No masks yet.

He still doesn’t really understand why they had to clean up your hit and run, or why now they have to bring you all the way back to Texas. Your actions were fairly common, boring, and there’s nothing that sticks out to him besides the fact you moved weirdly naturally in what should’ve been chaos. He can’t read your mind, no, but he can read body language like there’s no tomorrow and the oddest thing you gave away was normalcy. Maybe he missed your hands shake, maybe he missed some long internal monologue about what you’ve done and what to do now, but other than that, you’re like an innocent person.

Brian walks out of the small lobby, keys in hand, so Tim flicks his cigarette to the ground and crushes it beneath his boot. It’s not like he won’t ask you about this, anyway, so why think so hard about it?

–

You wake up at 7 P.M. A whole 12 hours have passed, just by your sheer tiredness, and you don’t regret it.

Actually, you can’t seem to regret much, right now– like your consciousness was lightened during your makeshift coma. You don’t feel guilty over what you did last night, and it strikes something sharp in your gut, because what kind of person are you? Someone who kills without shame? Who steals life with their bare hands? When did you turn into something so vile and disgusting? Certainly not just last night…but when else? You had never done something this depraved before (and, now, you don’t know what you’re capable of).

The guilt over not feeling guilt eats at what’s left in your stomach, starving you of any energy, and you have the subdued realization that you actually need to get out of bed, shower, and eat. Oh, and probably check out, and keep driving until you reach someplace comfortable, and you know that’s a foolish dream, and you’re really just driving until you outrun your sins. You don’t even know where you could go, but that’s a worry for later.

You peel off the thin sheets you buried yourself in and swing your legs over the side of the bed.

–

Tim wakes up before Brian, heart thumping fast and neck cold with sweat (he pays no mind and gets out of the bed, showers, changes into some blue and white and red flannel that was thrown into his own bag: he has better things to worry about.)

By the time Tim is dressed, Brian is already packing his things back up and heading out the door to put them in the truck bed. He goes out after him and throws his things in the bed, too. The bags land with their special kind of annoying huff. Across the way, back to the passenger’s side, Brian checks his watch– 7:45 P.M. exactly. He shows it to Tim, and he just nods and makes his way to your motel door.

On the short way there, Tim realizes that, honestly, he has no idea what to even say to you to make you come with them. He could always, just, hit you over the head and stuff you in the bed with the rest of their shit, because he knows he has that power (and acknowledging said power makes him nauseous) but would that be wise? No, that’s messy and will lead to more trouble than he needs down the road. Fear like that never ends in any respect. You’ll beg and cry and scream and it’ll be for nothing.

Instead, he shakes away his doubts and raises a closed fist– knock knock knock.

–

You’re packing away your toothbrush and dirty clothes when there’s a knock on the door, and it startles you so much you drop everything in your hands. They fall to the floor, forgotten about, because who the fuck is knocking on your door right now? Who has any reason to be trying to talk to you? This small town and smaller motel shouldn’t even have your presence memorized but there’s still a relentless thud on the wooden door.

This is it, you conclude, and the cops are here to drag you away. But, you suck down your never-ending fear deep into your lungs and walk up to the door anyway. You lean against it, closing one eye to peek in the peephole and– oh, okay, that’s definitely (probably, hopefully) not a cop, but some man with sideburns and a thick jacket. This actually feels a bit scarier than what you expected.

Why is there a random ass man knocking on your door like he knows exactly who you are?

You suck that fear back down though, because you’ve gotten oddly good at it in the past couple seconds (and minutes and days), and call out.

“Who is it?” You’re still staring through the peephole, watching his face. He certainly looks the part of a cop, like he stepped out of a very cheesy 80s TV show.

Tim’s face reels back, only for a moment, before responding, “Just open the goddamn door. It’s important.” His eyes meet your own through the peephole, because he knows you’re looking back, and you step down fast.

What does he mean, important? Why is this stranger speaking to you like this? What in the ever loving fuck is going on? You dig your feet into the carpet below, trying to ground yourself back into this reality where you killed a man and were probably being followed by this man and now you’re gonna be killed, too. That’s what’s happening, is it not?

“The fuck do you mean ‘important’?” Your muffled yell goes through the cracks in the door, “And who even are you?”

Tim’s eyes threaten to roll back into his skull, even though he understands exactly where you’re coming from because, yeah, this is definitely crazy out of context (and maybe, even with context. How do you tell someone yeah, my boss wants my friend and I to kidnap you and drive to Utah with us, where we’ll then be teleported to Texas because teleportation is a thing now and you just have to accept it. Oh, and when we get to Texas, you have to live with even more crazy strangers and probably kill more sleazy men. Also we know basically everything about you now, at least the important things).

He doesn’t linger on the absurdity of it all any longer than he should.

“Well, if you just opened the door, maybe I could tell ya,” he settles on instead. The irritation slips through anyways, because he understands why you’re scared but your fear is making things harder than they should be.

Your head tells you he’s scarily calm about it all, and that’s what’s making you so hesitant. What could he say anyway? That the police are coming for you unless you listen to him, or go with him, or something weird like that? Why would you trust a man to not do that?

(You’ve never had an actual reason to relinquish your autonomy. The limbs that make you whole shake for their own kind of control despite how hard you try to suppress it.)

…

But, honestly, what other choice do you have?

“Y’know, if you don’t open up, I’m gonna have to open it up myself, alright?” Tim scoffs quietly, digging his hands into his jacket pockets. “So how ‘bout you open the door and we can talk?”

Oh, so now he’s threatening you? Basically, right? Your palms, slightly sweaty, reach for the doorknob, because you really don’t wanna die a painful death if he kicks the door down. No, no, you would rather go out quietly and swiftly. Hopefully he just takes a pocket knife out and stabs you through your throat.

(No pressure to scream or cry or press a hand to your wound– just the understanding that you were to bleed out and stain the fibers an even darker shade of rusty brown.)

But you grab the doorknob and twist it open. Tim pushes himself inside, and the sheer confidence of it all has you frozen in place. He struts in and pushes the door closed but you’re still standing there, glued to that dirty carpet.

…

Okay, Tim doesn’t really know what to say now, now that he’s finally in your room and taking a seat on the foot of the bed. His hands reach for each other (because he isn’t going to just pull out another cigarette in here), fingers laced in between his spread out legs. He’s hunched over, refusing to really look at you, because all you’re really doing is standing there.

(Yeah, he could’ve done that better, but there’s no point in regretting it– totally.)

You turn, facing him– he sat down like he owned the place, like this isn’t incredibly creepy and dangerous– and your now useless hands curl into your sweatpant pockets. You really can’t believe what’s happening, what’s happened, and what’s going to happen.

Tim clears his throat before speaking. “Alright, I’ll get straight to the point– ya killed a guy, and now you’re running, right?”

Straight to the point, indeed.

Images flash through your practically empty head, like the crushed up dead body and the roads that led you here. If he knew this all, and is sitting down on your bed without any sort of honest hesitation, is there even a point of delaying the inevitable (aka, being swept up into a bigger mess than the one you made and fighting the man who witnessed your atrocities)?

You think, maybe, you should just get straight to the point too, because this guy’s presence isn’t setting off any real alarm bells yet. Y’know, despite everything else he’s just done. His approach right now is better than a violent one. So, you nod.

“Ok, well,” he pauses for a beat, contemplating the next words off his tongue, “ok, if you’re runnin’, you can hop in my truck and we stop in Utah, then get to Texas. That sound good to you?”

There’s something else he’s not telling you, you can tell, because he’s still fidgeting with his hands and glancing out the window. And, you really think you should ask about it, right? No one would agree to this absurd proposition without asking a few questions.

“As…convincing as that sounds,” you bring yourself to take just a small step closer, but his eyes immediately lock on the action, “I don’t think you’ve explained yerself enough for me to really wanna do that. Can you, like, give me anything else?”

Tim sighs and it comes from somewhere deep within him, like it’s crawled up his chest. Why couldn’t you just agree already? Why can’t you make this easy on yourself? He thinks he can give you just a bit more, and that’s it, before he takes the gun out of his jacket and cracks you over the head with it.

“Alright, well, you come with me and my friend, we get to Texas, and you can have a place ta’ call home. No– no new identities every couple months, no new credit cards or cars, just a home in Texas,” he clears his throat again, because he really doesn’t know what more he can tell you without escalating this or outright lying to you.

You get ready to ask him, what friend? when he keeps going.

“...You’ll just have to work for someone, yeah? Carry out jobs, far outta town, but come back to a place to sleep and food to eat.”

You have a feeling that now, he won’t give up any more, and it’s either go with them willingly or go with them with a bag over your head and your hands bound. It’s the only option you have, the only hope for salvation, and you’re not in any position to turn it down.

Besides, what’s so bad about a road trip with men you don’t know? Maybe you can kick your feet up on the dash, maybe they’ll even let you pick the music. Maybe, they’ll slit your throat the moment you get to the car and dump your body in a river, maybe they’ll take everything you own and turn you in to the cops.

Yeah, right? Not so bad. You’ve done worse without that promised sort of comfort to fall back on. Hopefully your missing poster never gets back down to Texas.

(Would you even have a missing poster? Would anyone notice enough to report you missing? Honestly, it’s probably the least of your worries.)

Your eyes meet his when you’ve finished your (very short) contemplation of plans. Though he breaks it, taking a real chance to look around the room with your fallen possessions and two duffle bags filled with your entire life.

“Fine,” you finally respond, and Tim feels his body loosen (just a little), “but we gotta stop at a store soon. I’m very hungry.”

Chapter 2: Yeah, Hey-Yeah/I Want To Travel South This Year

Summary:

Time takes you down many paths.

Notes:

okay it'sss hereeee (still haven't finished chap 3/4) (someone shoot me). hope u guys like it. love making these characters southern it's like a dream come true.

songs in the order they appear:
I Stay Away - Alice In Chains (chapter title)
Interstate Love Song - Stone Temple Pilots
Head Creeps - Alice In Chains

You take quick steps out of the lobby and into the parking lot. Tim’s truck is beige with a heavy dark brown stripe going through the middle, and he leans his back on the driver door with his hands in his pockets. There’s very obviously no backseat either (go me! you think sarcastically).

He’s wearing the same colors, though, like he’s trying to blend in with the vehicle– a heavy beige jacket and a red and white flannel underneath. The boots he wears are worn down but still remain a muddy brown, and his jeans are dark and even more worn (with splotches of deep brown and green and red on the bottom of the pant legs) and you think that, yeah, he looks pretty alright for a kidnapper.

You toss your duffle bags in the bed with the other ones, and he watches the movement like it’s all he knows how to do. His eyes lock onto yours, and you try your best to predict exactly what he’ll say next. It works, to a point, because he’s so easy to read and simultaneously the most mysterious person you’ve ever met.

“That all?” He nods toward your (now settled) bags. His arms are tucked away, but they feel a little looser than before. (Like, he’s ready to use his hands whenever he needs; or more like, he’s prepared for the worst of the worst.)

“Yeah,” you breathe out, “time to head out?”

He breathes out, too. “Yeah.” He removes himself from his position against the door and climbs in. You walk to the other side and also climb in.

Tim’s friend is in the middle seat wearing a bland grey and brown flannel and a muted but dark denim jacket over it and you kind of think they’re matching, in their own weird way. His hair is a light brown with small grays and he has the tiniest bit of stubble growing over a dimpled chin. He’s settled casually, hands dangling between his outstretched legs.

When you sit down and buckle up, you become aware of the fact that the torn cushions poke softly at your bottom and back. There’s no room to have your own bubble, and your shoulders touch the strange man’s in a way that’s tight and unfamiliar.

The inside is a mix of grey and light brown and the radio is basically broken, just not obviously (but you can tell, because none of the men make an attempt to turn it on). There’s a cupholder that floats unnaturally from under the broken radio but it doesn’t necessarily protrude. A white cord hangs from under the volume knob.

You don’t really know how to approach this new presence– do you introduce yourself and shake his hand? Or ignore him completely until he speaks first? It’s like grade school all over again and that fact gives the urge to bash your brains in.

He answers your questions before you take too long to dwell on them.

He clears his throat softly. “Uh, hi– ‘m Brian,” he offers you his hand in a way that’s a bit reluctant but not nervous. You take it because you can’t really blame him.

You shake his hand lightly and give him your name but he doesn’t even seem to register it– probably knows it already, like Tim.

Brian tells you softly that the next gas station is 30 minutes away.

“So, um,” you hesitate, and their eyes both look to yours, “how long is this gonna be? Like, a couple hours?”

Tim feels the hesitation behind your question. It buzzes through your body and into his ears, and it lands behind his eyes as he turns them right back to the road. The drive’s only supposed to be nine and a half hours, maybe nine and forty five minutes if you start driving really slow, and he’ll tell you as much. Just, not directly.

“We’ll be on the road about ten hours,” he said, right hand keeping the wheel steady (his left hand hangs off to his side awkwardly), “so we’ll probably be switching drivers every couple hours.”

Ten hours? You gape, mouth opening and closing like a fish. Sure, you knew Utah was pretty far from Oregon, but “ten hours” hits you like a semi truck because you can’t even begin to imagine sitting next to these men for more than a couple minutes. You don’t know if you’ll even survive it all. A six pack would probably do you some good (or, hopefully, an entire bottle of Taaka), even if that means these guys can rob you and leave you for dead, or just straight up kill you. Either works if you’re drunk enough.

You think of asking a very important question before debating your options.

“Uh, when do ya’ want me to drive then?”

Tim’s right hand tightens on the wheel, because what exactly are you getting at? He knows you’re not asking out of sincere generosity, so why do you even want to know?

“You’ve been drivin’ for a little while, so you can just drive during the last stretch,” he forces out instead of anything biting and mean. His humanity rises up because he knows exactly what it feels like to be plucked during such madness and not know where to land.

You breathe out loudly, though, like a triumphant sigh of relief. You had already been driving longer than you were used to, and now you can sit back with a drink and try to get to know these guys. It’ll end terribly or great and you don’t really mind either option.

“Okay, when we get to the gas station, I’m buying myself a bottle of wine.” The statement feels grounded despite the quiver in your voice.

“That okay with y’all?”

In all honesty, Tim didn’t think that’d be your first request outside of eating. Just because you were capable of (justified) murder doesn’t mean you were okay with it, and he doesn’t know exactly why you would be okay with drinking inside a small truck with two strangers. He thinks you believe this’ll be your last hours alive, and he can’t really blame you.

(He thought it, too.)

Tim barely nods while you focus your attention on the (mostly) broken white cord hanging from the outlet under the volume knob. Neither he or Brian use it, because they really don’t use their phones like that, but you take yours out from your back pocket and plug it in. You’re growing quite…comfortable in this little truck already and he feels the need to put his defenses even higher than they usually are.

(“So, do I need to power off and throw out my phone?” You shook it slightly in your right hand. Tim still sat on your bed but put his hands on his knees like he was ready to move.

“No, we took care of that already– don’t worry about it,” he responds while standing up. You shrug and put your phone back in your pocket.

“Oh, also, what’s your name? Never caught it.”)

–

You walk into the convenience store with a black facemask on (given by Brian– thanks, man). It’s cramped and cold with expired sweets and dry chips and stale beer. You stroll through the alcohol aisle anyway.

The small selection of wine sits in front of the smaller selection of energy drinks to the left of the freezers full of beer. It’s lukewarm, and they only carry a couple reds and two whites, so you reach for the cheapest red and turn towards the snacks. There isn’t much besides local jerky brands and potato chips and– oh, wait, you should just buy a sandwich and be done with it.

You grab a (definitely old) sandwich and march up to the counter.

Outside, Tim fills the truck up while Brian shifts to the driver’s seat. He watches the numbers climb up and up.

He…really can’t believe that you’re inside buying food and wine like this is some fucked up romantic getaway. Especially considering you’re going to be pressed between two random men who witnessed your crimes and are now whisking (forcing, maybe at gunpoint if it comes down to it) you away to some shithole in Texas. Texas– Texas should actually be the scariest thing about this, but you stride out of the convenience store with a plastic bag in your arms like the scariest thing is not getting asked for your ID.

(He also can’t believe he just said “whisking you away” like this really is some sort of getaway.)

By the time you reach the passenger’s door, the numbers have climbed as high as they could. Tim grabs the nozzle, shakes it the tiniest bit, then puts it back. His boots stomp as he rounds the truck and hops in next to you.

–

It’s been about an hour, and you’ve been taking leisurely sips out of the bottle. The red feels like it’s staining your lips and your mouth and maybe even your teeth. Brian leans back and drives almost exactly like Tim but his free (left) hand doesn’t seem out of place. It rests in his lap, fingers flexing and relaxing every couple minutes or so.

Warmth has crept up your neck and cheeks and you kind of feel like a teenager drinking for the first time (somehow, someway, you’ll find a way to blame your dad for this). At least your legs start to feel just a bit lighter under the tension in this truck.

Speaking of your legs (and the pressure building between the seats and windows), they rest on both sides of the column that comes from underneath the cupholders and radio. Tim’s boots cross at the ankle and it looks like he’s really trying to not touch or look at you for too long. And, really, he isn’t– the truck is cramped enough with just him and Brian, and adding a stranger right in the middle doesn’t help.

He can’t sleep either, because that means letting his guard down and unconsciously spreading out next to you, and he can’t afford that. Also, it’s just plain rude. Southern hospitality or whatever.

He can still see you, through his peripherals, taking small sips and fiddling with the white cord hanging from your phone that’s balanced on your right knee. He thinks it’s probably connecting and disconnecting, by the way you wrap the cord once and then twice over the device. Though, the second wrap seems to do the trick because you unlock your phone (awkwardly) and tap a couple buttons with your right hand (because, yeah, you’re still drinking out of the bottle that’s held in your left hand).

Suddenly, music starts to softly play from the speakers, a little fuzzy but clear enough, and he crosses his arms over his chest. First he lets you take a break from driving, then he lets you buy your wine and drink it, and now you’re grabbing whatever you want and playing whatever you want. You do know that you aren’t the one in control, right?

His hands tighten a bit in their grip on his arms, and he spares a glance to Brian– he must know that this is getting ridiculous now.

…

Actually, he guesses wrong, because Brian is reaching to turn the volume up a little bit more and thrumming his fingers against the steering wheel afterwards.

(Tim feels a petty pang of betrayal somewhere in his ribs: traitor.)

You watch Brian move, and you feel a small spark of satisfaction go through your fingertips.

Waiting on a Sunday afternoon / For what I read between the lines / Your lies…

Feelin’ like a hand in rusted shame / So do you laugh at those who cry? Reply…

Leavin’ on a southern train / Only yesterday you lied / Promises of what I seem to be

Only watched the time go by / All of these things you’ve said to me…

You throw your wrapped up phone in the cupholders, then lean down towards the purse that’s been settled on that middle column and pull out your pack of cigarettes. You throw them next to your phone.

Tim couldn’t see it before, but now he can read the packaging– Marlboro Black Menthols– and his grip softens because, maybe, the music you’re playing isn’t so bad. At least you know how to read the room.

(And it, honestly, has nothing to do with the fact that he smokes the same ones.)

Breathing is the hardest thing to do / With all I’ve said and all that’s dead for you

You lied / Goodbye

Leavin’ on a southern train / Only yesterday you lied / Promises of what I seem to be

Only watched the time go by / All of these things I’ve said to you…

–

Your bottle is empty, you really need to piss, and your legs have spread further and pressed deeper into the thighs next to you. It’s not like it’s…on purpose, but you also don’t bring your legs away. You’re comfortable despite the unconventional circumstances, and music that you actually like is playing, so you can’t find it in yourself to care.

Face hot and inhibitions loosened, you don’t shy away from staring at Tim. His head is resting on his right fist that rests on the window and he keeps his eyes on the dark road in front of him. His left hand rests on his left knee, and his breaths seem calmer than they were before, but your eyes hardly pick up on that fact because the old sandwich did nothing to soak up the alcohol within the past three hours.

You are very obviously staring him down and you don’t turn away when he notices, eyes meeting yours.

The wine bottle is closed and tucked inside the plastic bag it came with, along with the sandwich container, near Tim’s feet. It clinks with every minor bump in the road. Brian is too focused on the pitch black and bright lights in front of him to even care. Just another 30 minutes until he and Tim switch.

“What?” Tim asks, voice a bit hoarse.

You shake your head, eyes squinted just a little, and instead turn to take your carton of smokes out of the cupholder. You flip the lid back and pull one out, and then turn back to the man. There’s another cigarette lifted higher than the rest and you tilt it towards him.

Tim stares for a moment, eyebrows furrowed. Was it that obvious?

He plucks it out quickly.

You flip the lid back closed with a shameless grin– knew it! – and put the pack back down. (The ashtray that blended into the black of the cupholders gave it away, but you would never admit that.)

The cigarette you pulled for yourself hangs out of your lips while you feel around in your pockets for a lighter. You know it has to be close if it’s not in your pockets because you lit one before this entire ride but–

Tim has cranked his window down already, while you’re basically giving yourself a pat down, and flicks his own lighter to life and tilts it towards you. You pause, staring it down in a bit of embarrassment because he was definitely irritated by your borderline-tipsy fumbling, but you slowly lean down and let the flame burn the tip. After an inhale, you lean back against your seat.

Tim lights his cigarette second.

–

It felt like the best piss of your life once you all stopped at the next gas station.

Tim was driving now– 12:07 A.M. It took every ounce of his strength to ask if you could buy him coffee. He didn’t regret it, though, because now the night sky and soft hum of the car and hushed music weren’t relaxing him. He was up and ready and alert, unlike Brian, who was now snoring lightly in the passenger seat. You were still cramped in the middle, but he wasn’t hearing any complaints.

So crazy, beat the strain / Too lazy, shake the gray

So, and she willed the rain / So let me be defamed

Your head lolls back, neck resting on the seat. Your back hurts, your ass hurts, and your legs scream to stretch out even farther– the quick in and out of the store barely did anything to loosen you up. And, you’re incredibly bored. It’s pitch black and flat through the roads you drive on. There’s an instinct to start talking and talking until you no longer can, but you’re not sure how well received that would be. Tim didn’t seem like the guy to tolerate it, much less indulge.

You bring your hands up to the back of your head, now using them as a cushion instead, and you’re careful not to let your elbows invade Tim’s space any more than you already were.

Life doesn’t feel real in the middle of nowhere, even if this isn’t your permanent kind of middle of nowhere. The empty space goes on and on and on and it’s like you can see every moment that led you here replay on a blank screen. There’s a hollowness in your chest that follows.

The only plus (as of right now) is that you haven’t been murdered yet…and also that you haven’t had to plan out a whole new life…and also that there aren’t any officers taking you into custody.

Okay, that’s a couple pluses– but that’s all there is. You’re still driving in the middle of the night, and will be for many more hours, next to Sideburns and Josh Hutcherson. Like you’re in a horror movie where the main character does everything to get themself killed.

(Jeepers Creepers, maybe? Yeah, let’s go back and check on whatever was attacking us!)

Your redundancy stains / Tired of infantile claims

Like puppets on a string / Untangle you from me

Despite the odd situation, and even odder men, there’s a sense of permanence, like you won’t be able to shake them off anytime soon. They’ve somehow injected themselves straight into your bloodstream and itch like mosquito bites.

You bring your left hand down your face slowly, then return it back behind your head.

Tim watched, soaked in, your small crisis without even turning to look at you fully. He can feel the change in energy, from your tired to intoxicated to contemplative moments. You wear your heart on your sleeve in a way that’s harsh and cold. You have better things to worry about than hiding your emotions– no use in wasting energy on it. He gets it.

Time to call the doggies off / Tired of the shadowin’

Slide me to the side again / Slapped in the face again

“How much did you see?” You ask suddenly, still hiding in the cage of your arms. It’s something he had half heartedly expected, back when they were following you all over Oregon. He had his questions too, so it’s only fair.

“Well, we got there before you did– so, everythin’.”

You bring your arms down and cross them over your chest. That’s not really what you wanted to hear but, hey, it’s not like you weren’t expecting it. They did both follow you to a motel and are now driving you across many states, to work for some weird boss. It’s not too hard to believe that they were prepared.

You take a deep breath in, letting his words hang freely in the air, and look at him.

(Dark hair, tiny grays sprouting from the roots if you looked hard enough, and old scars scattered up his neck and cheeks. His eyes look hollow, like tombs, but your gut tells you that there’s still something locked in there.)

“Why? Did you somehow,” you exhale, “know before I did?”

Tim’s jaw tightens. He can feel your eyes taking his features in and there’s a blooming uneasiness at the base of his skull. Of course you would already jump to that conclusion, before any sort of logical one. You, running a man over; you, sitting outside without a care in the world; you, snatching up the aux cord in a truck full of strangers; you, with a fucked up sense of safety. He can at least trust that you won’t be too freaked out by the truth.

“Actually, kinda.” Your eyes widen just a fraction but you never look away. “We were just told t’ come to that specific street and see what happens– by, um, our contractor, if ya’ will.” He lifts a couple fingers off the wheel to accompany his awkward wording and Tim swallows down any instinct to lie or backtrack.

“...Okay.”

You turn your focus to the open road, not out of anger or fear but out of slow acceptance.

Empty room sets the scene / Pick at me slow, pain fiend

Suck me through barbed screen / Anger becomes our queen

“Does that mean you took those…parts from him? ‘Cause, when I went back to– to hide the body, it didn’t look like how I left it.” You draw your question out, long and gentle from your mouth.

“Yeah, yeah– we did. We were supposed to clean it up but you came back before we could finish.”

“Why?”

He really can’t give you an answer without answering everything, but he believes you could take it all raw and bare.

His hand grips the wheel harder and he forces the explanation out of his mouth.

“This…contractor isn’t really human. He already knew what you were gonna do before ya’ did it. That’s the best way I can put it.”

You pause, taking in the context that changes everything (but also, changes nothing), before responding.

“Oh, so now I have to face some fuckin’ supernatural being? Great, thanks for letting me know beforehand, Tim.” You deadpan, looking out the passenger window where Brian’s head keeps rocking against the glass.

Tongue whipping forked black / How long until you crack?

Surprised and set back / Lackeys’ loose talk for fact

Tim sighs loudly, rolling his eyes but setting them back on the road immediately. He can’t believe that’s what’s pissing you off– not the kidnapping, not the newfound confirmation of the supernatural, but the fact he didn’t tell you this before y’all left. Out of everything, he can’t believe this is what you’re bothered by.

He says your name with the same attitude you said his, “Would you’ve even come if I did tell you?” It’s not like your response would change anything because you would’ve come no matter what, but he wants to drill his point home.

You don’t respond, though, because he’s right, and it’s not like this revelation changes much about your current status. So what if your new big bad boss is actually some horrifying monster? Your endgame stays the same.

So crazy feel the hate / Yeah, I've got years to wait

I know it's not too late / Lending clean hands of fate

Rise from the dirt I'm in / Hide in another's skin

Stick black dress doll with pin / Your mouth takes on my grin

The next four hours pass on in a sedated silence: knocked through calm winds.

–

You wake up from a dream of something stupid, like running through a forest filled with cardboard cutouts of classic monsters. You didn’t know you were falling asleep until now, at 4:12 A.M.

The sky looks brighter, basked in the moonlight and stars, and stands out against the dead, yellowed grass. Tim’s still driving but he’s rolled the window down and the breeze reverberates through your skeleton. He doesn’t give you a chance to find your bearings (neck stiff, legs locked, arms hanging lazily over your chest still) before he’s breaking through the quiet.

“We’re ‘bout 15 minutes from our next stop, be ready to drive. I’ll give you directions from then on out.”

You nod tiredly.

–

The final stretch. Your hands on the wheel feel foreign, like navigating a distant land. They rest heavy.

“Y’er gonna keep driving straight for another 2 and a half hours until turnin’ right. I’ll tell you when.”

So, you drive for 2 and a half hours on I-80, through hills and mountains and even more flat terrain. The sun starts to rise and it hangs low in the morning air. Your movements (which include switching lanes to pass asshole drivers) are robotic. The nap you took earlier gave you just enough energy to finish this out, but you’re crashing the moment your head hits a pillow.

Your music still filters through the speakers, and now that Brian is up, someone is enjoying your playlist besides yourself. A little less isolated, even though Tim hasn’t done anything super bad. You could be grateful for that at least. He looks all tough and mean, and he probably would be in a different setting, but not right now. He doesn’t look tough and mean with his head tilted back in the seat you were just in, underneath the pink and orange glows on the horizon.

The rest of the drive stays quiet besides Tim skipping your songs or Brian turning them up. Even when you pull out another cigarette and Tim lights it for you again without question, it’s quiet.

Though the time passes faster than you thought, because Tim’s now directing you right and through back roads and dirt paths. The trees don’t do their part in giving you cover until about 10 minutes into the forest. It’s like you’ve been taken back to only hours ago, in an abyss, but this abyss is only supported by trees connecting together through leaves and branches overtop the truck.

There are signs, too– saying things like turn back, and leave now, and even a messily scribbled don’t even think bout fuckin here! You don’t have the power to think hard about what any of it means, because they pass by you so suddenly and next thing you know the rest of the path is going pitch black and there’s a ringing in your ears that makes you want to jerk the wheel and hold onto the sides of your head. You almost do, but Tim grabs the bottom of the wheel and keeps you on track.

Then, the world opens up around you, into a bright yellow cornfield and something that resembles a white roof in the distance.

The ringing stops, and Tim’s voice breaks through the static.

“–hey, calm down, we’re here, we’re here,” he’s rushing out, but stops when he realizes that your attention has been directed back to reality.

Notes:

Something tells you it won't be the last time talking about your corpse up north.