A Bad Place to Breakdown

Darkness gathered as I stood beside my car on the shoulder, cigarette ash glowing like a bad promise. The smoke clawed at my lungs but, for reasons I couldn’t explain, kept the bitter cold from reaching my bones. Someone would stop, they always do. Men like to play rescuer; they see a small silhouette on the roadside and the hero complex embedded in their wiring lights up. They don’t see the parts of me that need no rescuing. They assume someone my size can’t hurt them. Headlights cut the black and a black Chevy Impala rolled to a stop. A man climbed out who should have stayed in whatever hole men like him come from. His hair had the slick shine of old oil, his shirt was patterned in stains, and his grin was the kind you practice on animals. He smelled of stale smoke and cheap cologne. “A pretty girl like you shouldn’t be out here by yourself,” he rasped. “Something wrong with your car?” He nodded at the Ford Escape behind me. The Escape belonged to a man I’d decided I liked better as a corpse than a person; they hadn’t found him yet, but the car still drove, and that was what mattered. I looked up from beneath my lashes for the performance. “Yeah. Died at the wrong moment, I guess.” I shrugged the small, practiced defeat into my shoulders. He offered to check under the hood. I popped it and watched him fumble like he knew nothing about engines and everything about touching what he wanted. The engine didn’t die by accident, I’d loosened a clamp myself, but I let him play mechanic. He scratched the top of his greasy head and backed away. “I can’t tell in the dark,” he said. “Want a ride to the gas station? My buddy owns one up the road.” “That would be amazing, thank you.” I fished my backpack from the trunk. His smile widened; the car suddenly felt like a closed room. He introduced himself as Russ and asked my name. “Violet.” I held out my hand steadily. The scar across my knuckles flashed in the passing headlights. He drove past the first gas station. The road narrowed, the trees leaned in, and the light left his face. “I’ll take you to my friend’s,” he said, half-smile, half-command. “After you give me my payment.” Disgust twisted me, not fear, but a sour, involuntary tightening of my face. When his hand went where hands like his go, I shoved it away. He cursed, slammed on the brakes, lunged, and slammed the driver’s door. He came around and ripped the passenger door open. He hauled me out, dragged me by my hair into the trees, shoved me to my knees and forced himself onto me. I bit. Hard. Copper and leather filled my mouth. He screamed, dropped to his knees, and for a second everything narrowed to the sound he made. Panic is a luxury I sold long ago. My pocket held piano wire, thin and cruel. I looped it quick, hands steady despite the cold, and tightened until the struggle drained out of him. His claws punched at the dirt; the sound in his throat thinned to something wet and small. When his chest stopped rising, I stood over him and breathed like I’d run a mile. Gloves and a wet wipe came from the same pocket as the wire. I wiped my hands as carefully as I could, then walked back to the Impala. My backpack contained the things I always kept: a change of clothes, bleach, a water bottle, lighter fluid, cigarettes, matches. I stripped, cleaned, changed. I wrapped his body in my old shirt, doused the bundle with lighter fluid, and drew a neat line toward the curb. The matches flared, and the flames ate what they were given. Sitting in the smoke-stained Impala, I turned the key and drove back to where I’d been stranded. Leaving the car there would have to do, once it makes the news, lying low would be essential to maintaining the quiet life I’d built. Making scum like him disappear was worth it. I tightened the battery clamp I’d loosened and felt that small domestic satisfaction as the Escape purred to life. I drove away before sirens were a thought. His absence wouldn’t be missed quickly, especially by the women who knew what he was. The highway hypnotized me; thoughts were scarce and I was thankful. The cigarette burned down to a nub between my fingers as dawn crept into the sky. After an hour I pulled off at a storage facility, chain-link fence, dim overhead lamps: privacy without scrutiny. Inside the small unit I stacked the supplies neatly against the wall, stripped the bloodied clothes with the same methodical care I’d used at the scene, and replaced them with fresh fabric. Bleach and a damp cloth erased the final traces. Gloves on, I went to the back of the unit where a black Jeep Grand Cherokee waited. The engine roared to life as I pulled away. Everything from the highway, the fire, the mess, stayed locked behind the unit doors, until next time. By the time I pulled into my driveway there was just enough time for a short nap before coffee became a necessity.