There is a line,
A line no one is supposed to cross. That’s the way it is, that’s the way it has always been. But I have crossed the line; I looked at the small town fading away into the background in my review mirror and gunned my engine.
My getaway car was a ’69 white Chevy pick-up truck, the paint was peeling and the gas pedal stuck, but it took gas and went moderately fast… it went fast enough to get me out of this forsaken hole of a town.
Away from the family owned grocery store, away from the bait shop, away from the school and everyone I’ve known for my entire life. Away from everyone that knows my whole life.
I only stopped for gas, I wasn’t hungry and there was no one to force me to eat. The highway stretched before me.
Night. I was one of the few cars still driving, even the truckers had stopped for the night. But I wasn’t tired, and I still wasn’t far enough away from that town.
The highway stretched before me in a vast, empty plain. The stars shone above, and the moon kept me company as I drove.
Maybe I was being unfair; maybe I should give that rotten hole another—
What am I saying?!? I’ve given that place enough of my life.
I drove.
And drove.
And drove.
And drove.
I sang along with the radio, got some more gas and drank 5 cups of coffee, black.
The sun rose in a pale pink and golden cloud. Mist covered lakes and the world was waking up.
I drove without a thought.
Without a worry or a care in the world, except where the next gas station was. The highway was home to me, where I belonged.
I reached the ocean some time the next evening. The waves were crashing onto the shore. It was rhythmic and soothing, like driving on the highway. I parked my truck and got out of the cab. It felt good to stretch my legs.
I slipped off my shoes and buried my feet in the warm sand. It was quiet, only the waves and the distant yells of a neighboring beach. I crossed the sand and went right up to the tide line and watched the wave’s crash onto the shore. The foamy water splashed my toes, and buried my feet in the cool, wet sand.
I freed myself form the sand and bent down.
I wrote the familiar letters into the cool wet sand, I wrote the name of the stupid town.
I formed the letters quickly, and neatly.
The next wave came,
And the word washed away.
And all that was left was the smooth brown sand.
And there was nothing left of the chains that held me.