Southern Escape

Viola’s legs ached, and her skin burned in the sweltering heat. A few feet away from the gas station she spotted roughly an hour ago (the only structure since the bus stop).
“Finally,” she groaned. Over the three lonely hours she spent trudging along the road, her social awareness faded. There was no use in minding what others would think as there were no ‘others’.
The last person Viola spoke to was the bus driver. She dragged out the conversation, knowing what was to come. Clyde even asked if she was sure about the stop. He came off so concerned that Viola herself was feeling it second-hand.
In the city, she needed to worry about people. Out there, she needed to worry about going insane and suffering a heatstroke.
The woman took a moment behind one of the gas pumps. She made sure no one inside the station would be able to see her. That wasn’t a prominent issue, as there was only one vehicle in the parking lot—a bright red pickup truck catching the sun.
The establishment was dingy and old-fashioned. Every gas pump was dirty. None had those little screens like the ones in New York. Viola looked behind her, partly hoping to see a car, partly not. Lucky and unlucky for her, the dirt road remained quiet.
She brushed her damp hair with her nails until she got a ring stuck. Once that was pulled out, she wiped her face with her t-shirt.
“Do I even have my wallet?” Viola whispered.
The entrance bell chimed, and doors shut. Viola took a couple of steps back to see who left.
It was an elderly woman. She appeared remarkably athletic. She was wearing a pair of paint-stained jeans and a white tank top. Arms crossed and mouth open, she judged Viola. “Are you siphoning? ‘Cause I gotta shotgun upstairs.”
“I don’t even own a car.” Viola threw her hands up in defense.
“What’re you doing back there, then? Come inside,” she persuaded. “It’s 87 today.”
“Funny,” Viola said, following the woman inside. “When I left, it was 74.”
“The sun’s indecisive down here.”
They entered the building. It felt like a separate world. The air conditioning blew on Viola’s sweaty skin and through her hair. The interior was conversely clean compared to the outside. For a gas station in the middle of nowhere, Viola considered it one of the largest she’d seen. The aroma of the hot dog machine and freshly cleaned floors filled her with euphoria.
The owner sat on a stool behind the counter and took a pack of cigarettes for herself, “What were you doing over there?”
“I was trying to clean myself up.”
“God, that accent,” the woman remarked.
Viola explored the shelves. She made a mental note of what she seriously needed.
Water, high-calorie food, and tools. Not a slushie or a foolish keychain.
“Manhattan,” Viola said.
“Everyone who comes through ain’t from here. We don’t got locals or residents. You seen the population sign?”
“Not yet.”
She laughed, “That’d be an account of the fact, we don’t got one.”
“What?” Viola grabbed a 32-liter water and compact tool kit.
“Yep.” The smoke from her cigarette quickly took over the store.
“Isn’t smoking near a gas pump a bit-”
“Dangerous? Highly. The last time Earl refilled those… well, he was livin’.”
“Earl?” Viola picked up a couple of protein bars and a bag of beef jerky.
“My husband. Guess how long ago he died,” she instructed eagerly. The owner had her elbows propped up on the counter.
Viola sat her items down and rested her own arms on the surface, “Five?”
“Seven,” she chuckled. Smoke wafted toward Viola’s face.
“God…”
“Took him quick,” she nodded. “I know.”
The woman put her cigarette out on the back of her own hand. Many little burn scars sheathed her left limb like freckles. “Darla.”
“Viola.”
“Viola, sweetheart. You don’t needa pay for that.”
“Seriously?”
“Last time someone tried,” she coughed, “I shot ‘em.”
“What’s the point of this place if you don’t make a living off it?”
“Out here, you don’t need to make a living. You just live.”
“I came down here for something. Something different than the city.”
“Got what ya’ wanted, no?”
Viola shook her head. She took the items from the counter and began stuffing them into her bag.
“I mean,” Darla continued, “you’ll find something. Sure as shit won’t be what ya’ wanted, but you’ll find it, or it’ll find you.”

Darla’s final words echoed in Viola’s mind while the doors shut behind her. Those scarred arms were printed in her brain.
“It’ll find you?” Viola repeated, walking back to the road. “I think the insanity’s kicking in.”
Viola kept walking West, recalling her psychology studies. More specifically, the ones on isolation. The kind of damage loneliness could do to a human brain. She argued with herself, moreover her fears. The argument was that she needed this. An escape from the city and all the people she couldn’t stand the presence of.
Consequently, she listed off the people she hated at any point in her life. Six names down the list, a vehicle drove behind her. She once again became socially aware and ran off the road. Viola stopped to analyze the vehicle. The smell of exhaust was potent and led to a coughing fit. Unhelpfully, the beat-up, gray sedan came to a stop before Viola.
She waved her hand in front of her face in an attempt to rid herself of the stench.
The sound of the engine and the fumes came to a stop. Every window in the car was rolled down, and Viola could see the driver. It was an older man. A white, bald guy. Shirtless.
“Hello?”
“What’re you up to? Need a ride somewhere?” His voice was inviting. It had the tone of someone reading a book to a child.
“I’m not hitchhiking.”
“You were in the middle of the road.” He tilted his head. “You feeling okay, sweetheart?”
“I’m fine. I need to go.” Viola pointed ahead.
The man looked Viola up and down, then behind her.
Viola heard a loud, aggressive noise. A shotgun being cocked.