H: Chapter Twenty-Two

I remember all of us walking back to the van in silence. It was like we knew what was coming. When Thomas saw Jack, lying on the seat, cold and dead, there was nothing. Then Travis came over, and then nothing. Just shock. Our brains couldn’t handle it.

Then Thomas shook Jack by the shoulders viciously. “Wake up! Wake up, please!” Tears began to well up in his eyes

I remember looking at Jack and just wanting to get away. To get away from all the shit that drags me down. My drug-addict friends, my fucking addictions, and just everything. I wanted it all gone. Just burn everything down, so I can finally escape the soul-crushing drug-addled cycle, that was my life.

I couldn’t even remember why I started using in the first place. For what? A temporary escape, that in the end, just makes me feel even worse than before? “I’m feeling pretty bad right now so I’m just gonna pop some xanax. Then I’ll feel good for a few hours, only to have to repeat it all again.” The struggling for money, the gaining of the drug, and then the using. The same cycle, over and over, and over again. There was no escape. What the hell would we do? Just drive somewhere else? That’s what we had been doing the entire time, and it only made everything worse.

I got on my knees, in the middle of the van, and begged God to take everything away. “Just fucking kill me, man. I’m done, I’m done with this bullshit life. I’m done putting the needle in my veins. I’m done loading the god damn bowl and smoking it. I’m fucking done.”

But there was no answer. No great Jesus-figure coming down from the sky and magically healing me, no sudden rejuvenation of my body, no Jack coming back from the dead and saying, “Hey guys, you fueled my addiction that eventually killed me. But, you know, I still love and forgive you.” Just the cold, hard, silence.

And during that moment, where everything came crashing down, and I was at my lowest, I realized something. No one was gonna come down and wash away my addictions, only I could do that. Jesus wasn’t going to come down and heal me and make everything okay, only I could do that. I made my bed, I lied in it, and now I was going to be one to fix it.

* * *

About seven months before this, I was in the van with Travis, driving around Oregon. We hadn’t met Thomas yet. He was still a couple weeks away. As I headed down the highway with Travis, we talked about, well, I can’t really remember. The days seem to blur together now. But, fuck it, I’ll fill in the blanks with some random pieces of dialogue.

Travis turned to me and said, “Have you ever train-hopped?” For the past ten or fifteen minutes, he had been relaxing with his legs up on the dashboard. One crash by me, a piece of shit, and he would’ve been impaled by his own knees.

“What’s that?” I asked.

None of us had touched cigarettes, weed, or booze for quite some time. I think part of the reason we all went on the road was to escape those sorts of things.

“Train-hopping, literally hopping on a freight train and seeing where it takes you.”

“That sounds incredibly dangerous.”

Travis sat forward with a smile on his face, “Yeah, it is. People have gotten mangled by it and shit, it’s messed up.”

I turned to Travis with my eyebrows raised in worry. “Have you done it?”

“Yeah, once. I had this thing where I would talk the train-tracks whenever I was bored. And, well, one day a train comes by and stops, so I get an idea.”

“You got an idea?”

“Yup. So I hop on the train and wait for a few minutes. Then the few minutes, turn into like—an hour. At this point, I’m wondering if I should just get off or something. But then the train starts moving and—“

“Jesus Christ!” I screamed and slammed on the brakes. This skinny-little-bald-kid was walking right across the road, and I was too busy talking to Travis to notice him.

The van stopped and nearly tipped over. I rolled down the window and stuck my head out to yell at the guy. “What the hell are you doing, man? I could’ve killed you!”

“I-I’m sorry…” The kid said. His body shivered and shook, and his eyes were wide and frozen. I remember this sinking feeling in my stomach, maybe it was guilt? I don’t know, that seems like a far-away thing, that I can’t really imagine. “M-my name’s Jack.” He stuttered out. “Where are you guys heading?”

I turned to Travis for a second and asked. “Where are we heading again?”

Travis shrugged. “Anywhere, I guess.”

I stuck my head out of the window again and said, “We’re on a road trip, no direction or anything.”

Jack nodded, “Can I come with?”

I turned again to Travis and shrugged, silently asking him if he was okay with picking this kid up. Travis nodded and I said, “Hop in!”

Fast forward a month-or-so and we picked Thomas up in the parking lot of a truck-stop in Eureka, California. We spent a few more weeks traveling across California. It was around this time that I started smoking cigarettes. Jack would steal a couple out of my packs when I wasn’t looking (or stepping outside to piss) and smoke them in the back, hidden by the seats. I knew he was doing that, but in my grand wisdom, I still let him smoke it. Smart, right?

One night we found an abandoned K-Mart and I parked the van in the back of it. I stepped outside to take a walk and found a little park nearby. As I was sitting on the swing-set, a man walked up to me. The dude looked like absolute hell. His teeth were rotten and his skin was scarred and wrinkled. I could tell by his eyes that he was methed-the-fuck-out. And what does this guy do? He looks at me and says, “You smoke weed?”

I paused for a second, choosing my words. “Sometimes, yeah.” I said.

“Well, do you want an ounce?”

“Sure, but I don’t got a pipe.”

“I’ll give that to you.”

“Alright.”

Now, in hindsight, this was a really dumb thing to do. Accepting weed from a stranger, that was probably laced with fentanyl? Stupid. But I mean, it was completely normal weed. But still, I could’ve died or something from smoking it.

The guy then hands me the weed and walks off in the night. I was staring at it for a second, thinking about what the hell just happened. I mean, the dude looked like the avatar of death. But, whatever, nothing bad’s gonna happen from weed, right?

I walked back to the van and hopped into the front seat. “What the hell took you so long?” Travis asked.

“Uh…” I stuttered out. “I needed to grab some stuff.”

Jack raised an eyebrow and looked up at me. “What is it?”

A nervous smile appeared across my face and I said, “Weed. It’s weed.”
“Dude, don’t smoke that shit around me.” Jack said. “I quit that stuff a long time ago.”

I shrugged. “Yeah, and I was doing xanax when I was fifteen. It’s literally just weed, the fuckin’ most milquetoast drug out there.”

Thomas dropped his book in his lap and said, “Still, it’s a bad idea. You get addicted to things, like that.” Thomas snapped his fingers and went back to reading.

Back then, I genuinely could not figure out what everyone’s problem was. “Pfft. Name one thing I got addicted to.”

“Well, there was that arcade machine in Sacramento.” Thomas explained.

“That was a one time thing!”

“And then that strip club in Portland.” Travis said.

Jack laughed and said, “Oh yeah, and then there was that jewelry shop in Eureka. How do you even get addicted to Jewelry?”
I stared at Jack and said, “Shut up,” through clenched teeth. I sat back in my chair and loaded the bowl. Once the weed was fully packed, I sat up and said, “Anyone gonna smoke this with me?” Thomas ignored me and stayed focused on his book, everyone else shook their heads and stayed silent. “Fine!” I said. “More for me.”

I took the lighter and pressed the flame to the bowl of weed. I inhaled the smoke, held it in for a little while, and exhaled. Soon, everything began to feel like I was underwater. I always know that I’m stoned, when I begin to feel my eyebrows. It’s like I have caterpillars on my forehead, it’s weird.

I flipped on the stereo, and even though it was some pop-shit I don’t listen too, it was absolutely divine. As I relaxed, it seemed that some of the guys had their curiosity peaked, as Travis asked for a hit. Whatever strain of weed I was smoking, it was strong. I was having trouble speaking so I just mumbled random sounds and handed the pipe over to Travis.

After he took a hit, Jack reached over and said, “Gimme a hit.”
I smiled, and handed the bowl to him.

* * *

Fourteen days. Fourteen days of gut-wrenching pain, vomiting, diarrhea, shakes, fevers, and sweating. Before the withdrawals started, we packed every drug we had into a duffle-bag, every gram of coke, every ounce of weed, every bottle of whiskey, every tab of LSD, and burned it in a campfire. There was nothing left other than ash.

Though, we didn’t predict what would happen when we burned our supply. The smoke slowly began to rise and come towards us. There was no way to stop us from inhaling it. The high from the smoke was something that I’ve never experienced. Constant dizziness and nausea mixed with a wicked body and mental high. You can thank the heroin, weed, whiskey, tobacco, and coke for that. Once the twelve-hour high dissipated, our first day of sobriety had begun.

The first four-or-five hours was marked with a feeling of anxiety in our stomachs. The van was eerily silent, Travis stared out the window, and Thomas kept to himself in the back of the van. Even though no one said it directly, we were all worried about the imminent withdrawals. I knew that they all blamed me for Jack’s death, and if I’m being honest, I did too (But only a little bit). Though I think we all contributed to it by continuing our use around him.

It was the evening of the first day when the cramps set in. I was driving down the highway to New York with the bright, pink sunset across the sky, when all at once I felt my bones being crushed and stretched. I could feel the nausea set in, and overturn my stomach. “I gotta pull over!” I yelped, to no response. I parked the van on the side of the road and jumped out to puke. After the vomiting was over I sat on the ground panting with my head in my lap.

After a little while, my stomach seemed to calm, but that was when the fever set in. I sat on the ground whimpering and breathing heavily. After what felt like an hour, but turned out to be only ten minutes, I sheepishly stood up and stumbled my way back into the van. From the look on Travis’s face, I could tell he was dealing with the withdrawals already. I didn’t see Thomas, but I knew that the same thing was happening to him.

Now, it’s pretty bad to be around one person who is going through withdrawals. But three people in a confined space puking their guts out? Yeah, it was pretty bad. Thomas would continually vomit into a bag. We didn’t have enough things to puke into so we’d have to reuse each other’s bags, and once they were full we would dump it out onto the road. I don’t even want to mention the diarrhea, it’s something that I don’t want to relive.

The days continued on and we could barely drive. Our dopamine was so fucked up from constant drug-use it seemed that we had developed major depressive disorder. It got to the point where every second thought was, “Fuck it, who cares if I shoot up again? Nothing would be worse than this.”

On the seventh-day Travis would lay across the seats mumbling to himself and sobbing from the pain. The poor fucker had become delirious from the fevers. Thomas tried to distract himself by reading his never-ending supply of books, but the silence just kept reminding him of the withdrawals even more.

What we needed was something so stimulating that we’d forget about the withdrawals. But, ironically, the only thing that could do that, was something akin to acid.

The tenth-day was the worst. We could barely open our eyes or even say a single word. All we could do was lay there and accept our fate. We were all convinced that we were gonna die. The fevers, the shakes, the sweats, the vomiting, it was like every second was closer to death. But, in the philosophical sense, that’s kinda true.

On the eleventh day, things seemed to cool down. We still had a mild fever, nausea, and the shakes, but not as bad as before.

Just as the sun began to rise Travis bumped me on the shoulder. I turned to him and said, “Yeah? What is it?” My speech was hostile and full of fire. This made sense as anger is something that always results from some type of pain.

Travis sniffled and said, “How do you feel…”

I shrugged slowly. “I feel—“

“No, no.” Travis interrupted. “Let me finish.” He grabbed a tissue and wiped his nose. “How do you feel… about causing Jack’s death?”

I stared at Travis in silence for a minute. I will admit that I was part of the problem, I definitely contributed to the torture, but Travis was completely wrong. Part of the blame rested on him. “I-I didn’t, alright? He’s the one who picked up the fucking needle.”

“So, you don’t remember the time that you brought weed into the van?”

I looked down and bit my lip. It stung to remember that. “Yeah… I do.” I said, full of spite.

Travis lurched over to me and grabbed me by the shoulders. “So… if you never,” he shouted. “Brought weed here, we wouldn’t be in… this fucking mess!”

I shoved Travis away and into his seat. “Listen man, it’s not like I made him pick up the needle. If you wanna fight about it, just step outside with me, and we’ll deal with it.”

Travis nodded and said, “Alright,” under his breath. He slowly opened his door and stumbled outside. I did the same and met him by the side of the road.

I stared at Travis with my fists ready. I spit a loogie out onto the road and said, “You gonna swing, or—or are you just too.. chickenshit?”

Travis shoved me and I stumbled back. “Fuck you, Payte! Fuck you!”

I growled and ran towards Travis. I tackled him to the ground and put him in a choke hold. “Take that back! Take it back!”

Travis bit at my arm and I yelped. I pulled my arm away and crawled back. Travis jumped on top of me and wailed his arms at me. Fist after fist smashed into my face. “You killed Jack! You killed him!” Travis screamed.

I kicked Travis in the stomach and he bellied over. I held him to the ground, and I kept my arms away from his mouth this time. “Listen, you don’t think I feel bad about that? Of course I do. I will always regret it. I’m a not a fucking remorseless monster! The truth is, we all killed Jack. We all shot up and got high around him. So fuck all of us!”

Travis growled and swiped his hands in the air. He kicked me in the legs and I fell over. Just as he was about to pounce on top of me he suddenly stopped and looked to his left. It was like he was frozen. I wiped drops of blood from my lips and said, “What the fuck is it?”

Travis pointed across from him. “Look, it’s a deer.”

I stood up and looked to where Travis was pointing. A small fawn sat on the edge of the woods chewing on grass. It looked up and locked eyes with us, and then went back to munching on the grass. Being absolutely sure not to make any noise, I climbed inside the van and got Thomas outside. Thomas and I walked back to Travis and watched the deer. Once it had finished eating, it gave us one last look, an almost “goodbye” of sorts, and walked away into the woods.

Travis smiled and looked at me. “You know, I’ve never seen one of those before…”
“Really?” I said, chuckling

“Yeah.”

Thomas slowly began laugh, and then, like a contagion, we all did.

* * *

Our plan was to drive through New York City and then up to Maine. We would then bury Jack on top of a mountain and hold a funeral for him. We didn’t know what would happen after that, we never really planned that far ahead. For the entirety of this trip, our philosophy was that of a duck being peacefully carried away in a river, completely okay with wherever it went.

We made it to New York in six-and-a-half hours. This was because there was minimal traffic on the highway roads. The absence of any kind of vehicle, meant there was barely any highway patrol, and the absence of this variable meant that I could go at any speed that I wanted too. I remember pondering whether or not just to go fifty to piss any poor traveler behind me off. Before the alarm bells go off in your head, know that, sometimes, the world just needs a tad-bit of chaos.

But this swiftly changed once we began to enter into New York City. Hundreds of car horns echoed throughout the sky, with the sharp sound-waves bouncing off the concrete monoliths, towering above us all. The sidewalks were crowded with busy rats in cages scurrying about, to their work-places, their thousand-dollar apartments with one bedroom and a-half-bathroom, and restaurants to pay for over-priced, processed, slop. The modern man (and woman’s (I like to be inclusive in here, see how I’m trying to be inclusive?)) plight.

We were squeezed bumper-to-bumper in traffic. A white Ford F150 was in front of us. A fat-man sat in the front seat flicking ash off his cigarette out the window. As soon as I saw that cigarette, I was flooded with the urge to smoke one. It seemed to me that being sober was terrible, though that was only a trick my monkey-brain played on itself.

I rested my head on the steering-wheel and took deep breaths. It almost felt like I was smoking. But soon the thoughts of cigarettes turned into weed, which then turned into acid, and then into Heroin. In that godforsaken van, stuck in traffic, I’d have given anything to get single drop of black.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Travis do a double-take over at me. He took his foot off the dashboard and turned to me, “Payte? You alright?” He asked.

I took another deep breath, this time as deep as I could manage. “Yeah, yeah. I’m alright.” I didn’t dare mention cigarettes or any illicit substance for that matter, out of fear of Travis spiraling too.

“You don’t look alright.” Travis said as he placed his hand on my shoulder.

I shook his arm off of me and pushed Travis down into his seat. “I said I’m fine!” I growled.

Going sober was a group effort for all of us. If even one of us started using, it would fuck up everything we’ve accomplished. We absolutely had to be on our toes.

I continued taking deep breaths until it stung to breathe. When you’ve just started recovering from something, and you think things are gonna get better, one single thing can set you off like that. It really makes you realize just how fragile the human mind is.

I lifted my head up and turned towards Travis, “S-sorry for doing that. I was just having a moment. you know? I’m not gonna do that again, I promise.” I said.

For a moment, Travis seemed struck by some unknown force. His face was frozen, not in fear or agony, but in just pure disbelief. It took him a second to gain his composure his back, but once he did, he said, “That’s like, the first time you’ve ever apologized for something.”

My face slowly turned bright-red. “Oh, sorr— I mean—is that good?”

Travis nodded furiously, “Yeah, totally.” He said sharply, and then went back to staring out the window.

I focused my attention back to the road, and tried to push down that embarrassing feeling. Whoever I had become in that moment, felt weird to past-me. Actually, scratch that. I didn’t feel weird, I just felt rage. Rage for apologizing and sacrificing my self-worth for being vulnerable. And that’s something I don’t wanna do again.

We made it through the dullness of traffic. The cars in front of us would inch forward, then in a domino-like reaction, we would do the same. Then wait for a few minutes, then rinse and repeat.

Usually, we would’ve found the “bad” part of town and stayed there—that way we’d have ample supply of sin. But we were clean now, and that meant that we would have to change our lives around our new-found sobriety.

It’s funny that when you’re addicted to something you don’t realize just how much it affected your life until your off of it. You don’t think about how you’d smoke a cigarette after every meal, and now that you’re not smoking, what the fuck are you going to do after a meal? Driving anywhere was boring now that we weren’t high off of anything. No one was talking to each other, so it’s not like we could lose ourselves in conversation. All we had was our thoughts to keep us company, and thinking sucks.

Eventually we found our way to Central park, and decided to spend a couple days there, basking in the fresh air. We gathered our blankets, and backpacks to use as make-shift pillows, then set off. It was just around early-autumn so the weather was cool, with a slight bit of humidity. The leaves were turning orange and a slight red, and had fallen to the ground.

We were lost in the trees when I noticed just how silent everything was. My eyes quivered and I bit my lip, desperately trying to think of something to say. I dropped my pack on the ground and looked at the guys. “I think this is a nice spot to camp. Not too many people, so we probably won’t be disturbed. What do you guys think?”

Thomas shrugged and put his pack on the ground. Travis mumbled a weak, “yeah,” and swiped his blonde hair out of his eyesight. I grimaced and sighed through clenched teeth. “It was nice to see that male deer, wasn’t it?” I asked. You gotta give it to me here, I was actually trying.

Thomas squinted and said, “It was a female. Did you not see that?”

“Bullshit.” Travis said, turning to Thomas with an open jaw and crooked brows. “It was a male, Payte’s right.”

“C’mon…” I said quietly, in a low groan.

“Travis, don’t take this the wrong way, but you know nothing about those things. Leave it to me to figure out, okay?” Thomas said with his arms out to his side.

Travis stepped forward and pushed his face forward towards Thomas, a classic intimidation technique. “Fuck you dude! You don’t know everything, so don’t like act like you do. Fuckin’ sit your H ass down!”

Thomas gasped and clenched his fists. I couldn’t even move fast enough to stop him. Thomas swung his fists into the air and met Travis’s jaw. Travis fell to the ground with a great crash into the leaves. He sat up and massaged the now-growing sore spot. I sprinted towards him and looked at the two of them with disapproval. “What the fuck happened to us? Can’t we be civil? Jesus Christ…”

Thomas crossed his arms, “Hey man, he had no right to call me that. He’s a racist!”

Travis stood up and dusted himself off. “Screw you two, I’m going back to the van.” He began to march away and I glared at Thomas before shaking my head.

I turned around and reached my arms out, almost as if I was able to grab Travis. “Hey, wait!” I called to him. But all he did was flip me off and continue walking. I sighed and began to chase after him. He continued walking away in front of me, and no matter what I said, none of my words reached him. He was consumed by rage, something that I know very well.

I followed him through the park for what felt like thirty-minutes. I finally caught up to him and placed my hand on his shoulder. He turned around and bared his teeth. “What the hell do you want?”

I sighed and said, “We were just laughing, what the hell happened? Can’t you two just be friends again?”

Travis wrinkled his nose and muttered, “Can’t you just not give Jack weed?”

Alright, normally I would’ve punched him for that. But, I had made the decision to do better, and I was going to make sure of that. To change your behaviors, you have to think before you do anything. So, I simply took a deep breath and said, “Listen man, I’m really trying here, okay? I just want the old group back, the time when we were actually happy.”

Travis snickered and said, “That’s some talk coming from you. We were never happy, there was always something wrong. Whatever was left of us, died with Jack, and there’s no coming back from that. What’s done is done.” Travis took off again and I continued to follow, hopelessly grasping for any thread of reconciliation.

When we got back to where I parked the van on the curb, there was nothing there. At first, I thought the both of us had just forgotten where the van was parked. But, there was the red curb, and the stop sign and—oh yeah, the red curb. I had parked on the red curb.

“Where the hell is the van?” Travis called out.

I sat down and hung my head low. I had gotten clean, I had sworn to do right, our best-friend had died, and it still wasn’t enough. I still had to be kicked in the head while I was down.

“It’s gone.” I said in a heavy whisper. “The van isn’t there… because it was fucking towed.”

* * *

I remember suddenly feeling the urge to drink. It was like a worm in my head, I had let it slither into my mind, and now it was bending me over and fucking me. I could not control the worm, the gremlin, the monkey.

“Travis, I got a plan.” I said, rising to my knees off the concrete curb. We had to speak loudly to even hear each other over the cars honking and slowly sliding on the road.

Travis turned his head around and looked back at me. “Yeah? Another plan of yours?”

I chose to ignore the sarcasm, I simply didn’t have the energy to even bother thinking about it. “Watch Thomas, I’ll go fuckin’ search for the van. Got it?”

Travis sighed. He seemed reluctant to do that, to even trust me, but what other choice was there? Thomas didn’t like Travis, not after what he said, but Thomas was fragile. He didn’t outwardly show his weakness, but I could see it in his eyes, he was hurting. Plus, I didn’t really trust anyone else with my baby. I suppose some habits don’t actually die after all.

During the entire exchange my hands were sweating. I would wipe the sticky sweat on my jeans, but then they’d get soaked again. My mind was consumed by thoughts of smoking a cigarette and grabbing a whiskey. And I did have the money.

I’m not proud of this, but a little idea crossed my brain as soon as Travis left to walk back to the camp. My plan was to hit the bar, drink a little, and then go search for the van. It’d be easier to sober, and I wouldn’t have the lingering feeling of stress in my mind. Alcohol was god’s gift to man, a gift that both corrupts and soothes, and it was wonderful to me.

* * *

I found a nice Irish bar on Vernon street, right next to an apartment complex. The outside of the building looked run down. The gutters were falling down, and the brick wall was stained. Broken bottles laid on the floor. Cigarette butts rolled around in the wind.

I walked inside and took a seat at the counter. The bartender was a lady with black hair wearing an apron. She had her hair in a bun and wore black lipstick. “What do you want?” She asked plainly.

“Scotch on the rocks.” I said. “Actually, forget the rocks. Just pour me a big glass of whiskey.”

The bartender nodded and grabbed a glass off the top shelf. I heard the door swing open, and a lanky man walked through. He took a seat next to me and asked, “What’s up with you?”

I turned to him. He was a pale little guy, with a comical, handlebar mustache, and a stubble reaching down to his neck.

I shrugged, “My car got towed. I have no idea where it went.”

The man chuckled. “Well, that sucks.” He muttered.

There’s something very interesting about talking to a stranger about your problems. You’re never gonna see them again so there’s this little air of comfort. Anything you say is just completely meaningless. You can just toss away your worries like a tissue.

“Yeah, but that’s not all.” I mumbled.

“I could tell.” The nameless stranger said. “You look like shit, what’s actually the matter?”

“You ever feel like your life isn’t going anywhere? You were born into shit, and now you’re always gonna be shit.”

The stranger nodded. “I think everyone feels that to some degree. Everyone wants change, though they’re scared of it.” He took a sip of the beer the bartender had passed him. “You wanna know what you do when you feel like that?”
“What?”

“You keep moving forward, just to see how your story ends.”

My eyes went wide. That was just the thing I needed to hear.

“Besides,” The stranger continued, “They took your car to the city impound. Check there.”

I smiled and nodded. I took one look at my glass of whiskey and realized I hadn’t taken a sip. I was close to finishing my mission, to getting to Maine, why give up now?

I took one last look at my surroundings and stood up. I walked towards the door, and the bartender shouted at me, “Hey! You didn’t pay!”

I chuckled and flipped her off, then I walked out the door, and started running.

* * *

I asked around and learned that the city impound was located on seventh street, two hours away. The city impound, was closing in an hour. So I ran and I ran, stopping only to allow myself to breathe. Along the way I noticed people’s stares. I guess the stranger was right, I really did look like shit. I can imagine it now: “Wow, what a druggie.”

“What a loser!”

“How gross!”

I would’ve stopped to punch one of them but there was no time for that.

Finally, after forty minutes of sprinting, I came to the city impound. I took a seat against the fence to catch my breath. My legs felt like jelly, everything was fucking sore. I made the decision to never run that fast ever again, and stood up.

Next to a rusted Camero, was Bessie 2.0 in all of it’s glory. I had done it. I was freezing cold, I couldn’t breathe, I was in agony, but I had done it, and I think that’s worth cheering for.

There were cameras everywhere, one was even pointed directly at my face. Stealing the van back would be dangerous, but I had done it a million times before. This time wasn’t different.

I started climbing the fence and soon got on top of it. I lifted my leg over the little razors and carefully put my hand at the top of the fence, just behind the barbed wire. I used my strength to lift myself over the razors and on the other-side of the fence.

Once I had done that, I breathed a sigh of relief, and started climbing down. I reached the bottom of the fence and stepped onto the ground. I looked for the van and found it, then I started sprinting towards it. I reached the doors and quickly unlocked it.

I started the van just as a security guard came out of the hut. “Hey! Get away from the van!”
I slammed on the gas pedal and started accelerating towards the fence, all while the security guard yelled at me.

The fence came closer and closer. I closed my eyes as I breached through it and came onto the road. The only damage it had done was a small crack on the windshield.