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fin. ( 2018 - 2020 )
i never fell for the existential dread that came with the interim of life, but those last few moments felt like heaven.
will it finally come to an end? the incessant running, the journey into the unknown? his knee bounces on the train. on the second. on the connecting flight. it's a wonder, how this may very well be the only instance in which he's felt nervousness. leaving the country had never dawned on him, never truly crossed his mind. he felt too comfortable - until now.
what has he to lose, now that he's given up everything?
( mostly everything. . .they didn't think he'd leave high and dry, did they? a few keys had been left behind, one with a broken girl and turquoise staining her nails. another with a brunette detective that had to have a bounty on his head after he'd gone rogue. perhaps one will cherish the belongings within the corresponding storage unit, whilst the other returns them to their rightful owners or sends them off to their final resting place in museums across the country. )
the alternative passports and identification cards weigh him down with the cash and checks that will tide him over well into the indefinite future. a hotel will come first, then a home with a new identity. a final resting place with a shell of a man who's clipped down every last signature curl until the trademark is unrecognizable and for once, he might blend in with the crowd unintentionally.
and blend in, he does. there are no looks cast his way when he's taking down his hood, when the worn soles of boots cross an uneven terrain. it is historic, aged. cobblestone and brick depending on the area. the people are quiet and appear to move in routine. the local shops have their doors propped open, glass stained and aged between cracked wood that has been painted over time and time again. men and women chatter inside, giggles and laughter that says everyone within has lived their entire life in this town.
no one stares, they only smile when they acknowledge him and continue with their conversation. even the concierge at the motel hardly bat an eye as the local accent left Jameson's tongue. the old man merely wished a "Mr. Hale" to rest well, completed with a brass key to one of their mediocre rooms that nearly broke after being crammed and twisted into the rusted lock. it smells faintly of clean linen, something else aged in the authentic wooden walls.
there are rural areas in central England, country side homes and wheat fields seldom with neighbors or noise. the calm reminds him of his childhood on the farm, at least before Claudia brought them into the suburban area of Corpus Christi. there are no echoes of sirens, of fighting four stories down or the buzz of the New York streets when he's left his belongings in the room and stands just at the edge of the field behind the building.
the breeze whistles between the tall grass, and he wonders if this is the meaning peace. the spaces between his fingers are empty, tingling when his mind drifts to think of a counterpart and how she might be the only thing left that keeps his life from being complete. it's better this way. now there is no more running, there is no more worry. there is no more wiping of tears when he tells her he has to leave. there is no regret nor debt nor empty promise or need to look over his shoulder.
perhaps he should have.
"hey, buddy." an american accent. Jameson turns, opens his mouth to speak just as he catches the reflection of the evening sun against drawn metal - and then there is nothing.
the locals heard a bang, saw the doves scatter across the sky in response to the noise. they said they hadn't a clue who this man must have been, that he'd lost his life in the town just as soon as he entered. there was no true identification on him. there had been no connection to a missing person. just a John Doe with a single gunshot wound to the head and left bleeding among the bittercress weeds.
( they don't know. they couldn't know that at one point, you considered yourself a king. that you figured if you were going to go, it would be in a blaze of glory. clinging, like a dragon to your gold. )
there was no pain, no hurting. that's the thing with a shot to the brain - you're quick to meet death. they say there is a white light, a flash of images and then you fade into nothingness. but that flush of chemicals and dopamine that expel as you fade feels as though it lasts a lifetime, as though you never truly die. it's something evolutionary, that your brain has created to protect you even in the worst moment of your life - no matter how sorry or anti-climactic.
( and this is better than you deserve, you know. in an alternate universe, you opened your mouth one too many times. you got tough with the wrong guy. the bullet holes varied in location and size, and you were left in a ditch for the buzzards. in that universe, you might not have given away those keys in time. then you truly would be left to die in memory and in life before you even got to say goodbye. at least this way, they don't have to wonder if you will return. there are no children learning your name. they can assume you've died long before the news will ever make its way to them, and it will be as though you ceased to exist. )
fin.
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