Stranger

 

                                                                            1. 

                                                   Able 

 

                          If you wanna be a star of stage and screen, look out, it’s rough and mean.  

                                                                                                                                   AC/DC  

  

Able eased the gas pedal and rolled through the intersection. Two nameless roads in a nameless place. This town, whatever its name is, sat tucked away between nowhere and forgotten about. His guitar sat on the passenger side, propped against the seat. A baby blue Martin acoustic. The ticket to fame he once loved. The chisel that carved Abel Stevens from a steaming pile of nothing to pure stardom. That statement, of course, being the self-serving bullshit he spoon fed himself in his early days as a musician. Along the way, he learned his beloved guitar served a more crucial role in his career than making music. It was a leash, a goddamned short one too.   

It’s funny how time passes when you’re expecting the worst. Like a school kid caught with one of his dad’s smokes. You’re all the rage until you get caught. Then you’re outside the principal’s office waiting to explain yourself. Time does this funny thing when you’re dreading the future. It speeds up. Twenty years gone in an instant. He even wrote a song about it. He named it, ask me how I know. It was one of his go-to songs.

He started his day in a normal enough way. He planned to drive on the Interstate from Georgia to Missouri. He mapped out a visit to see his father and stepmother. Stepsister if you played into the family joke of how much older he is than her. He intended the guitar next to him as a gift. A sort of parting gift. A small token for the man who brought him into this world.

By midday he’d beat the chaotic Atlanta traffic. Distant buildings that towered over the city shrunk to a speck in his rearview. Scenery in front of him smeared into a blur and his mind fell into deep thought. He daydreamed the way a person does during a boring commute home. You’re behind the wheel and technically you’re driving, but good luck remembering any of the trip. His son, Robert, sat at the forefront of his thoughts. He used the word Son for lack of a better one. His role in the boy’s life hadn’t much exceeded a sperm donor. A notion of parental responsibility for the boy existed. But when he was honest with himself, and he rarely was, that responsibility brought a burden he’d do better without. Harsh words, even for him. The entire reality of it was harsh. Even more, unfair, more so for the boy than him. A voice snapped him back to reality. “Hello Howard.” It spoke the name in a deep, grumbling tone. Directness. Familiarity. Ables real name, before his time as a musician.  

His attention moved upward toward the mirror. A person draped in a white sheet sat behind him in the before empty back seat. Vague contours of an enormous figure bulged under the cloth. Moisture from two eyeballs glistened from two crude cut holes. “You’re taking the guitar to your dear, sweet daddy. How adorable.” Able didn’t reply. He pretended to focus on driving and clutched his shirt. His fingers grasp the silver clover that dangled underneath. A gift from his mother. The sole source of comfort for the last two decades. “That guitar is not yours to give away. Even if I allowed it, it wouldn’t have changed a thing. You still owe me a debt.”  

“Then just leave it between us. Leave Robert out —.” Laughter erupted, cutting him off. Hateful, menacing laughter. The profile of a large square jaw bounced up and down under the fabric.  

“Don’t get righteous on me now, aren’t you on your way to put the debt on your father? I appreciate the sentiment, but he wasn’t part of the deal.” Able shifted in his seat, resting his body against the door. 

“My time’s up and I’m still breathing. What do you want?” 

“You got twenty years. Now I want what’s owed. You had a child in that time, that’s two lives.” 

“I’m not going to him; I’ll just keep driving.” 

“You don’t need to. And you’re right, you will just keep driving.”  

He knew death would come today. Every minute for twenty years, a constant countdown in his mind. An eighteen-year-old selfish prick killed a thirty-eight-year-old selfish prick for fame and sex. The money, just a pleasant bonus. Time and its significance are beyond a young person’s understanding. Children make the most impactful decisions while they’re still children. When they’re ignorant and invincible. Welcome to the shit show we call the human condition. Opportunity is knocking now; I’ll be damned if I miss the call. To hell with the future. I’ll deal with it then.

Now that consequence sat behind him. Watching his every move and leading him toward his end.  

The voice behind him belched a word, “Bethel.” 

“Bethel?” 

“That’s where we’re going. Take me there and you will be rewarded.” 

Able started typing the town name in his GPS. Leather creaked behind him. A rush of hot, putrid air brushed across his ear. A pungent odor of decay overtook the wild cherry scent from the air freshener. “You are going to burn alive today. That’s how you will die. I’m going to sit here and watch you scream from the pain. Your time is done, but I’ll give you one chance to save your bastard son.” Able resisted the urge to grab for the necklace.  

 

Far away, Robert lay in his bedroom impatiently watching animated shapes drift across his ceiling. Stars, planets, and comets cascaded in an assortment of colors. He’d used his feet to push the covers toward the foot of the bed. His mom would rush in soon and give an over dramatic tuck in performance. The ritual wasn’t as important to him as he let on. Being an only child living with a single parent meant growing up faster than other kids his age. It was up to him to take up his missing dad’s end of the co-parenting. The nighttime ritual was a fair compromise, it made her feel good. She deserved that much.  

“Mom!”, He screamed. “It’s getting late.” She yelled something back he didn’t understand. He readied himself to shout again by taking in a large breath. Before he could bark another command, he was cut off.

A voice spoke to him from under his bed.  

“Robert, come to me.” The voice spoke in an unnaturally deep tone. Explosions of electric arcs snaked down the back of his neck. 

“Mom!” He screamed, pushing the word out so hard it tapered into a squeal. 

She burst through the door, “Jesus, Robby, I was talking to your aunt–" 

“It’s happening again. I think he’s under my bed.”  





Thank you for reading, I'll have the second part done as soon as possible.