On the Run by M Zeigler (online e reader txt) 📕

He looks at the needle then looks at me with a childish plea in his eyes, it takes every shred of determination I have not to burst out laughing at his antics. This full grown Georgia boy is scared of a needle? Come on Barrette! You’re covered in tattoos, you cannot tell me you’re scared of needles!

 As I wait for him to respond  to my comment I dump some peroxide onto the bullet wound, the clear liquid fizzles up and runs down his arm leaving a light pink trail as it goes.  With a quick stab the needle pokes through his skin before he has time to even react I push the plunger on the needle injecting the local anesthesia. I’m really thankful that he didn’t get hit in the left shoulder, it would be  tragic is his tattoos were destroyed. Barrette didn’t even wince at the needle, meaning either the alcohol is working enough to dull the physical pain or he really doesn’t care about the pain at this point.

“Maybe your right about people like us?” Barrette replies sounding buzzed all of the sudden, hearing his rather depressed words I reach over and take the alcohol bottle from him and pitch it to the sink where it shatters sending the contents down the drain and glass fragments to rain down on the counter top plus into the sink basin.

 “One of us has to be optimistic otherwise were dead in the water.” I state before he can object to my actions. Even I know that when someone is drunk, especially men, the last thing you should ever do is take the alcohol from them but I’m not afraid to put Barrette in his place.

 “I just mean to say that people like us cannot be forgiven without some sort of challenge. Others say the same as you, about me having already paid my dues, but I don’t think or feel that I have, I just act like I think I have.” Barrette informs as I begin dragging the needle and thread through his skin watching with fascination that a tiny amount of liquid can entirely stop him from feeling pain. I can repeatedly jab a needle into his flesh and he doesn’t feel it, I think I missed my calling as a vet.

“You should count your lucky stars; whether you believe it or not you paid your penance, you have hardly done a thing wrong in comparison to me. I just shot two men and a woman tonight without a second thought; it’s not the first time I’ve done something like that either. And need I remind you that the last time a Parker started shooting people she was shot to death in her car. The only reason she is luckier than I am is simple; she had a faithful loving man with her that had no problems dying by her side. I’m alone, entirely alone, my only job and goal in this world is to kill Devon, but that’s how a true outlaw is supposed to die right? Alone and in love with someone they can never have?” I say to Barrette with stone cold bitterness lacing my voice, the man sitting before me looks up at me with sadness in his eyes. Not for himself but for me, seeing that look angers me and I focus my efforts into closing up the last of this wound.

“You’re a fool to think that outlaws have to die alone without god’s forgiveness, if you think Bonnie Parker died in vain then you’re a moron who hasn’t read a single text book. When she died over a thousand people attended just her funeral alone, when Clyde Barrow was buried there were hundreds at his funeral and both were rumored to have been devout religious people. Her family mourned her passing, his family mourned his passing. And I never said I was afraid to die, your one of few people who understands the loneliness in the life we lead.” Barrette retorts sternly and drunkenly just as I’m finishing up the last stitch in his shoulder.

“That’s the problem, you’re not alone Barrette, you’ve never been alone, not the way I am and always have been. You have a mother, you have a father, and you have family that loves you endlessly. My mother stood by and watched me be beaten bloody, and darn near killed on a regular basis. You have people who admire you and wish that they were you, or at least married to you! I have no one; you have people on your side of the proverbial wrestling wring. All I have is me, myself, and a few guys named Jack, Jim, and Jose. So I don’t want to hear that pitiful comment about loneliness. Besides that you had the ability and opportunity to make your dreams come true. Where I stand now, is where I will spend the rest of my life. I will always be confined deep inside some ramshackle excuse for a building, always in the dark, and always empty and solitary.” I say then cut the string on the sewing thread with the same knife I used to dig the bullet out. Before Barrette has the opportunity to further this conversation I’m grabbing my cigarettes, lighter, and a now warm beer as I’m heading for the bay doors to go outside.

After a long drag off my cigarette I take a long drink off my beer bottle, anger is boiling inside of me again so much that if Barrette comes out I might pick a fight with him just to get rid of the rage. Realizing starting a fight with my partner in crime is a bad idea, I stomp angrily over to the bay door across from this building to see the remaining gym equipment that was put here, way back when this place was used as an illegal fighting ring. The police shut it down when I was just a kid, maybe six or seven years old, not long after I was returned to my dad.

I hear Barrette’s boots heavy on the gravel just outside the bay doors behind me, I don’t acknowledge his presence as I enter the gym, plug in the old radio my sister Anna put here and crank up the volume. Ironically the one song that all three of my sisters dedicated to me is playing right now, this tune also doubles as a good work out track. Pop Evil, Trenches, I don’t even bother to tape my fists with the bloodied rags laying on the nearby work bench; I could care less about protecting myself as I take a swing at the nearest punching bag. Clack! The sound of my fist hitting the punching bag is all that I can hear.

 Barrette stands across from the gym in the moonlight with his arms crossed over his chest, muscles tense, and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. When he seem me take the first swing at the punching bag his expression turned to a darkened yet impressed smirk, which further encourages me to cut loose on the defenseless dried blood sprayed bag. Part of me feels even more angered that he is just standing there watching me beating the sense out of a punching bag instead of talking me down, but then again I know why he’s only observing. His earlier statement was somewhat true; he and I work on the same mind frame. We don’t work the same way other people do, we have to learn lessons for ourselves, and we have to do things our own way, Barrette knows that he cannot talk me down. He understands that even trying to talk me down will only result in me aiming these well timed punches at his face.

Knowing and understanding this whole argument is all together ridiculous and someone proves me wrong only causes the anger to amplify which causes me to full on brutally attack against my blue plastic cracked opponent. Feeling like I’m a certifiable metal case, I duck and roll away from the punching bag only to land in a very animalist crouch to face my would be attacker before springing into the air and giving the opposing punching bag a swift round house kick. I land the attack perfectly only to double back and slam my heel into the lower section where the knee’s of my imaginary opponent would be located.

I once again steady my feet still squared up to fight, except I am slightly winded. This is one of the many down sides to smoking, it dwindles your breathing and stamina capabilities. As I stand here trying to catch my breath and steady my labored breathing the radio cuts away from commercials leaving a thirty second silent interval before cutting into a new song.

In that thirty second pause I hear the distinct sound of multiple sets of boots crunching through the gravel behind the building I’m in. In my peripheral vision I can see that Barrette is still just standing there watching me, seeing that he isn’t moving I know that he cannot be the one making this new noise. But if it’s not him, then who is?

“Were leaving.” I say very quietly to Barrette as I start walking back towards him his head tilts to the side as he reaches up to take the cigarette out of his mouth preparing to speak.

“Going where?” He asks just as four shadowed figures come storming around the corner moving as silent as bats from a cave, the first of the four is about the same height as I am but nearly quadruples me in weight. The second is slightly taller than I am but also doubles me in weight, the third is knee high to a cricket so to say and really lacks the aggressive stance that everyone else in the group has. I’m almost wondering if the third person here is a child.  Glancing to our fourth opponent I’m clued into the origin of these faces, the neon colored shoes that loom back behind the leading three tell me that this is my mother, Adrienne Dastard, and the leader is Michael Dastard my step father. The person wearing the neon shoes is my defenseless little brother Conner Dastard, as for the person who stands taller than me, I have no idea who they are. At this point I don’t really care who they are simply because they are obviously not here for a friendly family meeting, knowing this doesn’t really help prevent the ache in my heart. My own mother is out for my life? Like I said to Barrette earlier, he has a mother, and father who love him dearly.

As I make it to the center of the gravel road going between the industrial buildings, the two taller forms break away from each other, Michael goes for Barrette first, figuring that the Georgia man is going to be the hardest one to deal with. That thought might be the most intelligent thought Michael has ever conjured,  sadly for Michael; he is no match for Barrette even if my outlaw partner is drunk. Being around Barrette for any length of time will clue you in on the fact that Barrette, sober, drunk or otherwise is no someone you want to start something with. You may start the fight but I guarantee he will almost always finish it, I cannot imagine there are many fights he has lost.

To me this is impressive, I didn’t think that outside of military, and the few good cops left, that there was anyone who didn’t lose fights very often and knows the true meaning