Buddhist monks should drive on the Arkansas Interstate. For hundreds of miles, it is two lanes of pavement and sun-scorched grass. No stimuli whatsoever, the perfect place to achieve that spiritual sense of deindividuation—that sort of mind-death that makes you forget you’re a living person and supposedly achieve oneness with the universe or something. Serenity, peace, that sort of hogwash. I got half of that down. The mind-death part. Not like I need the Arkansas Interstate’s help on that front, though. Maybe one day I’ll get to that second part. Not today, however. Probably not tomorrow either. Probably never. There ain’t no rest for the wicked. I white-knuckle the faded leather grip on my steering while I peek into my rear-view mirror for what must have been the fortieth time today. Nobody’s there. No police. Good. Great. Wonderful. Perspiration has collected uncomfortably in the small of my back, awkwardly sticking me to leather interior. I let out an exhale and jam my hand into the elastic band of my skirt, wiping away the moisture. If father could see me, he’d be hopping and hollering right now. This is not behavior befitting a proper lady. I wonder just how long my little excursion through the Arkansian countryside would last. Would I make it to Texas? What would I even do if I did? What even was there to do at all? The rattling of the engine on the ‘91 Mustang distracts me from all those questions I knew I couldn’t answer. It’s a beat-up old sports car that hasn’t seen maintenance in years. Lot of things just plain don’t work: the A/C, the radio, and the 8-track cassette player have been busted for years. The windshield is cracked, and there’s a thick layer of rust that runs along the underside of the grille, just beneath the paneling. If the previous owner cared at all to maintain it, it would have been worth a pretty penny as a collector’s model. As is, it’s more a junker than anything. But a Mustang is still a Mustang at heart, no matter how old and battered it gets. I think it suits me just fine. Never saw myself driving a fancy new car anyhow. Never envisioned myself fleeing from the police to Texas in a car stolen from a priest either. Life has a way of surprising you sometimes, though. You never know to what depths you’ll sink if the circumstances are right. And I have certainly sunk to the bottom. I’ve sunk to the deepest, darkest depths where no light dare shine: a veritable tar pit of sin and depravity from where there is no salvation and no choice but to drown in its bleakness. I don’t mind going to Hell. I just don’t want to go to prison. The dashboard tells me that the Mustang is running low on fuel. The fuel light isn’t on yet, so I have at least a couple gallons left, but that’s no relief. Like a typical car from the 90s, the Mustang guzzles gas like frat boy guzzles booze at a tailgate. At best I have another 24 miles left in the tank. I kick myself for not stopping sooner. Who knows if I would reach a gas station before I ran out of gas.With the Arkansas Interstate, you never knew if the next gas station was in five miles or fifty. The prospect of breaking down in BFE Arkansas does not appeal to me, but I can’t help but weigh my options. Maybe I could just ditch the car, run to the woods, and live like Chris McCandless or something. [i]No, stupid.[/i] The police would find me for sure. There aren’t even any trees on this godforsaken road. Not a winning plan. Not like I had a winning plan though. As providence would have it, however, within ten minutes, I see signs for Benton. The city of Benton is a microcosm of every rural town across the Bible Belt. It's a shambling corpse of a city that died with its factories in the 70s. Those who could afford to leave, did, with only the poorest and most destitute people remaining. Fast food, gas, and low-rent motel chains propped Benton up like a marionette, giving it the mocking façade of life, but the rusted-out rooftops, busted concrete, and dilapidated buildings betray the illusion. Benton felt like home. Most cities hid their ugliness, under a veneer of glitz and glamour. But not places like Benton. Or my home of Vanndale. Their ugliness was plain as day, unable to be hidden. I don’t want to stop, but I have to. The less I have to think of home, the better. Before pulling off into the exit for Benton, I check for police officers. Thankfully, there are none. I pull into an Exxon station and kill the engine. The pumps look like they hadn’t been changed out since the 80s, but if they supply gas, I’m not complaining. There’s still blood on the keychain as I take it out of the ignition. The priest’s blood, not mine. That won’t do. I dunk the keys in the tub meant for the windshield squeegee in a makeshift baptism. “I now baptize you in the name of the father, son, and holy spirit, for the forgiveness of your sins, and the gift of the holy spirit,” I mockingly recite to myself, procuring a paper towel from the dispenser to wipe down the keys. I notice there is a crucifix charm on the keyring. I remove it and toss it in the garbage. “Amen.” I walk in the store to pay for my pump in cash. Using the priest’s credit card would certainly ping the authorities to my location, and I couldn’t have that. There is a teenaged girl behind the counter, and her back is to me. She has the full figure of a woman, filling out her jeans and blouse in all the right places with that sort of smooth roundness that men can’t resist. She wears her braided brunette hair long, reaching almost all the way down her back, like a true Southerner. She hasn’t noticed I’ve entered the store yet. Laying an elbow on the counter, I don’t alert her to my presence, and instead take time to appreciate the view. I wonder if this will be the last person I ever see before I am caught. I wouldn’t be terribly upset if she was. At least I would have gone out on a high note. Finally, she turns around, and I’m immediately aware of two things: She is beautiful. She has that special kind of beauty that only grows in a select few people that have won the genetics lottery. The kind of look that celebrities spend hundreds of thousands of dollars in surgery trying to imitate. She has a black eye. The purple, red, and orange mark surrounding her right eye is no doubt the size of a man’s curled fist. The swollen skin forces her eye partially shut, making it seem as if she were constantly squinting at me. Despite this, she smiles the brightest smile I’d seen in years. “Hello,” she says in a backwater accent you only find in these sorts of podunk towns. Her voice is thick like honey and equally sweet. I hesitate to respond. There are a million thoughts running about in my mind. I want to grab her by the hand right now and tell her I know how it feels to be hurt by someone you love. I wonder if she had been raped. I wonder how many people have asked her about it before. Had something been done about the person who gave her a black eye? Was this the first time? Who hurt her? Could it have been an accident? Would it be improper of me to ask? I feel sadness, pity, and comradery swirl into a single tidal wave of emotion. But more than anything I’m furious. I can feel my whole body shaking. I’m aware at this point I’m taking far too long to respond to this girl, but I can’t stop myself. I want to kill the man responsible for this, and every man like him. I want to watch him die. Here you have a beautiful bluebonnet, grown from a town of weeds. One has to marvel that such a thing can even exist in this place. The single bright spot in a gloomy town of poverty and methamphetamine, and here it lies crushed before me. Crushed for being beautiful, crushed for having an iridescent glow of life. I can think of no greater tragedy. Her smile drops. She can sense my reaction. I can’t look at her. It’s too painful. She reminds me so much of myself when I was her age. “20 bucks for pump 3, please,” I mutter. “Coming right up,” she says. The sweetness in her voice has faded to a more business-like demeanor, but it’s still there. I muster the courage to meet her eyes, and I see something I’ve lacked for years. Call it what you want: a spark, a glint, a glimmer, whatever. The look of a person who hasn’t given up yet, hasn’t yet been squashed beneath the weight of the world. It’s the ray of hope and optimism for the future unclouded by the past. I feel closer to this girl than anyone in my entire life. Maybe I could take her with me. Away from this hellhole called Benton. Maybe then she wouldn’t end up like me. “I...” I try to say something. She braces herself, no doubt anticipating some sort of inquiry about her eye or the circumstances that lead to it. I can tell she’s dreading discussing the topic. That knocks the wind out of me. The words I want fail to escape my lips. “Nevermind.” It was a pipe dream anyways. Perhaps if I was someone else, someone better, I could have said something. I could have helped. But I’m not that person. I can’t even help myself. The memories are coming back now. Little flashes of my childhood are screaming from the back of my mind. Images, thoughts, feelings, sounds, all barrage me at once. I can feel my chest tightening as if there is a fist clenched around my heart, squeezing me like a stress ball. I know it’s not a heart attack, but it sure feels like one. I can’t breathe, the air suddenly absent from my lungs. I can’t stay here. Not like this. I run out the door and break down sobbing in the priest’s car, head pressed against the steering wheel. I don’t want to think about this. I just want to get in the car and drive, drive away from this place of disease and death. [hr] I’m six again. It’s Christmas. We’re at the Church. Mom is still alive. The decorations are nothing special, not like anyone in Vanndale had a great sum of money to spend on them anyways, but to a child, it was a wonderland. I remember being awestruck by the lights and tinsels, all those bright, shiny things that seemed bring life to the deadness of Vanndale. The priest has set up a makeshift Santa’s workshop and is dressed the part. He’s not quite as fat as Santa, not quite old enough, and his beard is a pretty obvious fake, but the other kids and I don’t care. It’s Santa Claus. We all eagerly wait to tell Santa our Christmas wishes and after what seems like an eternity, it’s finally my turn. “Come on up, little Ms. Megan,” Santa pats his lap with a chuckle. The priest is master of his craft and his laugh sounds just how I always imagined Santa’s would be. I’m nervous, this is [i]the[/i] Santa Claus after all, but my father ushers me forward. I have my request prepped: a race car driver Barbie—hopefully a modest request for Santa. Santa pulls me up onto his lap. “So what do you want for Christmas, little girl?” “I want…” I’m about halfway through my response when I notice it. That lump. Next to his rolls of fat, underneath his britches, Santa has a hard, uncomfortable little bump. I’m I can feel it pressing, pressing into my backside, as Santa gently holds me in place on his lap. I don’t know what it means, not yet at least. If only— [hr] I’m eight again. Mom is dead. Cancer. No money to pay for treatments. Wasn’t a pretty death. It’s right after Sunday Mass, and Father has left me by myself at church. Told me to get a ride from someone back home. Father is around less and less. I don’t know where he goes, but he always comes back irritable. He has spider bites along the underside his arms that seem to just get bigger and more plentiful. His face seems to slowly be cracking—the disease is taking him, but of course I don’t know that yet. “C-can someone take me home?” I sputter out, nervous as all hell. I’m afraid I’m gonna half to walk home, which is five miles away, in the hot Arkansian sun. I’m dressed in my prettiest Sunday Best, and I’d hate to sweat in it. Of course the priest answers. He smiles with that practiced warmth and assurance that only a man of God can manage. “Sure can, little Ms. Megan.” His voice is smooth as silk, carefully tempered like a man speaking to a spooked doe. He takes me by the hand, gentle as can be, and guides me to the Mustang. It’s in pristine condition. It’s still an old car, of course, but there isn’t a spot on it, the red paint sparkling with a fresh coat of wax. I’m excited now. The priest has the coolest car in Vanndale, and I always loved hearing the v8 engine turnover with its thunderous roar. The Mustang has the power to go anywhere you wanted and look good while doing it. He helps me open the door. It’s the long, heavy type of door found only old two-seaters. He shuts the door behind me as I gingerly make myself comfortable on the white leather interior, grateful that it is not burning hot like black leather would be. “Ready for a ride, little Ms. Megan?” The priest sits himself down and cranks the car up. The Mustang’s engine roars out. “Yessir,” I respond earnestly. “Good.” He smiles that priestly smile. “But I have to stop somewhere first before we get to your house, is that okay?” “Yessir,” I say. He drives out just a little bit along down the road away from the town and into the Arkansian countryside, where the road was no longer pavement, and there isn’t anything but sun-scorched grass for miles. He stops at no place in particular and kills the engine. “Father, why are we stopping here?” I ask. “We’re going to play a game.” He presses the lock on the car door. He reaches his hand across the seat and cups my inner thigh. Then he— [hr] I’m fourteen now. I don’t wear my Sunday Best anymore. I don’t go to church. I wear my clothes black now and dyed my hair to match. Gothic. It’s the smallest bit of freedom I have in this godforsaken place. People think I’m a rebel, maybe even a satanist. I can hear the whispers they speak under their breath, the rumors that float around—I can see the frown in their faces hiding disapproving thoughts. “She was such a good girl when she was little. What happened?” “I wouldn’t let my daughter dress like that.” “Megan needs a good whopping to put her back into shape.” I’d like to see them lay hands on me now. I hide a kitchen knife alongside my thigh, underneath my skirt, in a makeshift holster. The priest hasn’t touched me since my first period, but I don’t put it above him to try at it again. I wish he would. I could kill him then. I feel nothing. There is no life left in me. I am a zombie, a dead girl who refuses to embrace the stillness of death because I simply don’t know how to die. Father is useless. He’s another walking corpse, just like me, but of a different variety. The meth use caused his mind to whittle away until he was capable of doing only two things: watching television and getting more meth. I told him once about the priest did. He slapped me, told me I better not to bring cops around the house. I hate him. I hate the priest. I hate this town. I hate myself. I can feel the rage is that percolating in the depths of my soul. The desire to burn away the disease of this place is always on my mind. It’s the only thing that keeps me moving. Without it, I would wither and die. One night, I sneak out to the priest’s home. It’s comparatively nice place when stacked up against the hovel I live in, of the few two-story buildings in the town. Like the priest himself, it seems to look over the town, staring downwards with perverted fascination. The lights are off. His Mustang is parked outside, starting to show the signs of its age: rust is starting to accumulate in the undercarriage, the bright red paint fading away. From the curb, I pick up a sizable rock. I hurl it with all my strength at the Mustang’s windshield. It doesn’t break through, but it leaves a rather large crack. Then the alarm went off. I didn’t expect there to be one on a car so old, or at least, one that still worked. I book it as fast as my legs will take me, away from the car, back to my home, laughing all the way. I imagined the pain, the frustration on the priest's face when he ventured out into the night after being awoken from his comfortable sleep, only to find his beloved sportscar vandalized. I’m glad to have hurt him for once. For the first time in years, I feel alive. [hr] I’m seventeen. It’s night time. I’m dressed in all black, a ski mask over my face. There’s an old Smith & Wesson .38 special jammed loosely in the waistband of my pants. I’m carrying a specially prepared backpack. After months and months of preparation, I’m ready for what I’m about to do. I’ve watched the priest’s movements, his habits, his routines. I’ve examined every inch of his house and yard, and looked in his windows to examine the layout of the interior. I’ve left nothing to chance. I have only one chance at this, after all. I’m tingling with excitement. I fear it might betray my silent approach. I steady myself as I cautiously approach the house, the weight of the gun awkwardly offsetting my balance. The priest keeps a spare key underneath a ceramic effigy of Jesus—but the front door is loud and creaky. If the priest wakes up as I enter, it could be messy. I take another moment to calm myself to fully concentrate on the task at hand. My heart is pounding so loud I can barely hear the sounds of the crickets chirping. I insert the key ever so slowly and turn. The lock’s tumblers release with a thunk not loud enough to hear unless you were listening for them. I pause a moment, just in case, listening for any sounds of movement within the house. There are none. Gently, I press against the weight of the door. It refuses to budge from the tender push I give it, so I push again, harder this time. The door mewls and complains under the force, but quietly. I can just barely see into the interior with the tiny gap I’ve produced. I press again, even harder, and the door cries out with a dreadful screech. I freeze. All the blood vessels in my body contract in one single moment of sheer terror. I again listen for the sounds of the priest stirring. There are none. There’s enough room for me to squeeze an arm through, but not enough to enter. I have to push again. I take a deep breath. If I drew this out, it would only increase the likelihood of the door creaking further and awakening the priest. The next push had to be decisive, one fluid motion. As quickly as I possibly can, I force the door open. It hisses with another screech, but I’m beyond caring, I slide into the threshold and into the house and let it close shut behind me with a loud click. I can hear the priest stirring; a light turns on upstairs. In a split second, I weigh my options: flee, hide, or confront. I won’t back down. Whipping the revolver out of my waistband, I rush up the stairs as fast as I can, my body running on pure adrenaline. There is no time to think anymore. “What in sam hell?” His voice barely registers to me. I kick open the door to his room, revolver out, just like in those cop shows I liked to watch. It’s obvious I caught him off guard. He trips over himself, one leg in the pants he was attempting to put on, and crashes to the ground with a wet thud. “Don’t move!” I yell, brandishing my gun at him menacingly. I don’t want to fire it, not yet. “This is a robbery!” The priest seems to believe this boldfaced lie. He doesn’t appear to be considering who I might be. He lays prone on the floor, quivering. “Stand up,” I say, in the gruffest voice I can manage. “Miss, I don’t know what you want from me, but I am just a priest, I don’t—” “Shut up, or I’ll blow your brains out.” There’s no emotion in my voice. Just a statement of fact. But I feel so alive right now. More in control than I’ve ever been. It’s a beautiful experience. “Give me your wallet, and your keys,” I tell him. He complies, dredging both from the depths of his pants he was attempting to wear. “That car out there, she got gas?” I ask. He nods. His face is contorted into a visage of pure terror. It’s like sex to me. I can feel my body trembling with purest ecstasy. But I want more. I need more. I carefully out from underneath my backpack, making sure not to give him an opening to attack me. I don’t take my eyes off the beautiful, agonized, expression of his while I unzip the backpack. I produce a pair of handcuffs and a ball-gag. “Put these on,” I order him, sliding the handcuffs along the length of the hardwood floor. “But why?” he stammers. “I’ve given—” I cock back the hammer on my revolver. That shuts him up, and his eyes widen to the size of dinner plates. It feels so good to see him like that: helpless and afraid. “We’re going to play a game.” I produce a ball peen hammer from my back pack and then I— [hr] I’ve been having more fun these last few hours than I’ve had in years. Every muffled scream is rhapsody that sends me to a new level of euphoria. But all good things must come to an end, and an end for the priest has been long overdue. I only regret I do not have an eternity to torture this man who killed me long ago and left me a shell of a women. The priest lies before me a broken man. Even if I let him live, he would never recover from what I’ve done to him. He is a mess of oozing cuts, shattered bones, and bashed genitals. He is more beautiful to me in that moment that he has ever been before in my entire life. I produce from my backpack the final instrument of suffering I had planned: a bright orange cannister of gasoline, and a pink zippo lighter. The priest sees this and gives out another muffled scream. I make sure the gasoline makes as much contact with his open wounds as possible as I douse him. His body is writhing delightfully from the pain—I can tell how much it burns. “You know, father, I don’t really consider myself too religious anymore.” I comment between the screams. “But I do hope there is a Hell. I’m sure I’ll see you there.” I flick open the lighter, it opens with that trademark zippo click. “But just in case there isn’t one…” I light the zippo and toss it onto the doused priest. He immediately ignites in a torrent of flames, so hot I have to back away. I can see his flesh begin to sear and blacken, like a marshmallow dipped too deep into a campfire. At a distance, the heat is pleasant, like the warmth of God’s grace. I sit there, basking in the glory for what feels like forever. Time seems to crawl to a stop as I watch the priest burn. I’ve never felt so alive as I have in this moment and likely never will again. It’s perfect. The fire begins to spread along the floorboards and furniture in the house, and I’m snapped out of my reverie. Time to leave. I run outside to the Mustang, crank the engine, and— [hr] I’m sitting in a dead man’s car at the Exxon station without a plan. I feel empty. I have no past, present, or future. I’m just waiting to be killed at this point. I’m fucked. I might as well be dead. But I remember the girl in store. Maybe I could help her. Maybe I could save her from becoming like me. [i]No! Escape! Every second you waste here is a second closer to being put in a cage.[/i] But escape to where? And to do what? I didn’t know. Was I to spend the rest of my life on the run, looking over my shoulder? That could hardly be called living. I could just end it here. The thought had crossed my mind several times. I became a monster to slay one—did I really deserve to live after what I did? How gleefully I embraced sin? I didn’t know. All I know was that I want to stop this feeling of emptiness, this gash in my soul that bleeds like an open wound. I want to feel the way I felt when I burned the priest more than anything, that warmth of feeling alive. I will do anything for it. Again, I think of the girl in the gas station and the glimmer of life she has. I want it. I throw open the door of the Mustang and trudge back out over to the gas station. I can feel the revolver sagging in my pants. I don’t know what I’m going to do; I’m running on autopilot. I just know that I need to find out this girl’s story. Fuck prison. Fuck the gas. Fuck Benton. Fuck Vanndale. And fuck the Arkansas Interstate. I [i]need[/i] to know if I can help her. At that moment, I feel just the slightest bit more alive.