Title: Only a Million Miles Till Paradise
A/n: Don't know where this came from. Please review.
Part One- Death
A hard techno beat I know I'll never like is playing so loud the flimsy glass of the windshield shakes. It doesn't matter though, because she loves it. We drive with the windows down, so we don't suffocate ourselves with the stench of tobacco and liquor. Signs dance by our eyes, like the dots after a camera flashes. Not quite there and yet distinctly imprinted in the mind. We haven't stopped for two days now. At least not for more than an hour anyway. Drew-throughs and coffee shops are the only things keeping us alive. The windows are tinted, which doesn't really matter much considering that they are rarely up. But she always closes them while I'm sleeping. I always sleep during the day, allowing my fifteen-year-old princess free reign at the wheel. She would never do something stupid though, she's too smart.
I pull the cigarette to my mouth, inhaling deep before flicking it out the window. A bobble head of Donald Trump sits on the dashboard, an unwanted present from a forgotten friend. I glare at it, his smiling face mocking my own scowling one. I received it last Christmas, convinced the only place it would bobble was my trashcan. Then she glared at me, big blue eyes pleading that we honor her make shift family. So, it got shoved on the mantel, next to framed locks of hair and bloody photographs. She grabbed it as we left, and looks at it randomly as we drive. She tells me she wishes she had had more time to pack. Bring her girly things along. I tell her if she needs tampons we'll pick them up on the road. She blushes at the mention of her womanhood and I cover my grin with another cigarette. She glares, pumping the music louder. I hate her techno shit, but the driver gets the radio. That was one of the rules we established over milkshakes and honey buns. We're running low on money, not that she has a clue. I toy with the idea of holding up a gas station…then I remember who I'm with and opt for washing windows.
It scares me how old she looks, a cigarette resting on unpainted lips as we fly past reality in my Desoto. Once up a time, this care was my baby. Then I met her. Baby blue eyes beat silver hubcaps any day. I know I love her, but she's only fifteen. She's too young to know anything besides the chaste kisses on the cheek and falling asleep in the back seat of the car, wrapped in each other's arms. So my love stays a secret, and instead I play the big brother role like the Whelp never could. I care for her, teaching her the way of lift gently. Always gently because I fear she will break. But I love her, they know that and I know that. She seems to be the only clueless one. She's perfect in every way. Wavy hair, innocent eyes, and a broken smile. She's moody and bitch and can throw a punch after a bottle of whisky like any bar junkie I've ever met.
They don't understand, never will, I suspect. Got the wrong ideas, think I'll hurt her. Even worse, they think I'll take advantage of her. Never…never hurt my baby. We aren't funning, no. She could never run…simply glide. We're gliding away from the pain in that two-bit nonexistent town. We're living now, even if only in Burger King and Dunkin' fucking Donuts. The two of us will be just fine, cause love radiates from her as hate does from me. We counter-react each other, innocence and death. We love each other, and we'll be just fine.
I look at her, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. The mass of brown is thrown over her left shoulder, resting on developing breasts. Her eyes are focused on the road, hidden by my sunglasses that she slipped from the glove compartment as I slept. She grabs my hand, as if she knows I am willing her to do so, and smiles into the dashboard as we fly past another sign.
Only a million miles till paradise.
Part two- Innocence
I feel his eyes boring into me, and watch him in the rearview mirror. He's stretched out across the backseat, barely fitting and yet seemingly comfortable. I shift the gear, pulling the wheel to the left as I switch lanes. He pulls my pink sweat shirt over his head, producing the smile I know he aimed for. I quickly allow it to melt away as he sits up. I turn the radio up, and the expected groan of annoyance makes me smile. I don't even like this song much, but I pretend to. I don't know exactly why, maybe because I like to know he doest have feelings…that he's not just a shell of perfection stuffed in leather. That he's really with me because he wants to be and not because I'm too young to take care of myself. I hate being young. I pull into the rest stop, checking my hair in the mirror before twisting my body so I'm facing him. His hair is different now. Longer and more natural looking. We never stop long enough for him to break out the hair gel…he's lucky if he gets to piss. His shirt is dirty, not disgustingly so, but noticeable. I pop the trunk and get out of the car. The door squeaks as I slam it shut. I yank another one, this one a bit cleaner, from his bag and throw it on him. I tell him to change his fucking shirt. He glares and I walk away.
The store is empty, not counting the gum chomping blonde at the register. I grab the essential food groups. Beef jerky, potato chips, slushies, cookies…and a package of mini-marshmallows. I shake my head as I pile the items on the counter. The woman doesn't argue as I ask for a pack of Marlboro reds. No one ever argues with me. Maybe it's because I'm tall, or maybe it's because they saw the guy in the car I was in…or maybe its just because they don't care. Let the bitch get cancer, they think. I always think I know everything. He never gets mad at me for that…only person who doesn't scold me about it. After paying, I find him in the driver's seat smoking a cigarette. We never say hi. We can go for three weeks without seeing each other and pick up right where we left off. He changed the station, but I don't change it back. I just sit there with my bag of Cheetos and stare out the window. We never touch in public, let everyone believe he's my brother. I don't care; no one needs to know that we hold each other. It never goes past holding though. I'm still waiting to give him my first kiss.
He's watching me instead of the road, making sure I'm all right. I'm not, but he doesn't need to know that. Guilt has become as common to my body as smoking and drinking. I feel bad, and yet I cant make myself regret having left. Maybe that's why I feel guilty…cause I'd do it again. It wasn't his idea. He'd never consider taking me away from the people who loved me. Never considered that I might want to leave…that I couldn't stand the empty stares and grave site anymore. Until I begged. Once he saw the tears, he told me to pack my bags. Said we were getting the hell out of this shit-hole. He understands me, which is something not a lot of people do. He knows how I am. He sees past the childhood, past the innocent act…and strait to me.
I met him when my sister was in highschool. My mom thought he was a bad influence. I thought he was amazing. I guess that's when my crush first developed. To my eleven year old mind, he was a God. I think for a moment, musing on how different things would be if they had lived. He sees the look on my face and changes the station back to my own. I smile.
Only a million miles till paradise.