by Deacon Rie
The car had been left along the shoulder but parked in such a way that it was obstructing a large section of the lane. It was an older model with the muffler hung too low and the back right brake light masked with red tape. Other than being extremely dirty and unkempt, the car didn't have any visible reason for why it should have been abandoned. As he came closer, Stephen could see the orange sticker on the driver side window indicating that the vehicle had been marked for tow by the city within the next week. The rear window leaned at a strong angle and the sun reflected off the tinted glass, making it impossible to gain visibility of the interior, impossible to know what was inside, impossible to know if the car was a threat.
Stephen hadn't remembered stopping or even slowing down. All he knew was that he stood firmly about twenty yards away from the vehicle, unable to move forward. He wasn't sure how long he had been standing there, staring at this abandoned vehicle. His eyes felt dry, and he tasted the distinct salt of the desert's sand in his mouth. As fear gripped him, his heart began pounding; far exceeding his running pulse.
Why is that car there? Who left it there? What are they planning?
Stephen looked around, scouring the horizon for reasons unknown to him. He crunched down on the feeling of sand gritting between his teeth. His head turned sharply to catch a glimpse of an unsuspecting onlooker; nowhere to be found. Forcing his body forward, he began moving again but it wasn't to continue running. Confused but determined at the same time, purpose overwhelmed him and Stephen headed directly for the parked sedan.
Marching ahead he efficiently picked up a led pipe among the road's debris which seemed to have been left there solely for his purpose. Poised next to the passenger side door, still sweating from the previous miles, his heart rate dropped and he stood in complete calmness. A deep breath, a look around. A gaze directly into the picturesque blue sky spreading across what was otherwise a serene afternoon. It was too familiar. He easily and all too clearly recalled a similar beautiful and horrible day on that Iraqi highway.
It was almost as if his arm was being controlled by someone else when it rose into the air. But there was no question who was in full control when the other arm came up to grip the pipe in a baseball-style swing. The resulting force exploded though the passenger side window with a pop that sent glass ricocheting throughout the car's interior. That beautiful Iraqi day had brutally delivered more than just a bright sun and gentle breeze. It had kicked off a lifetime worth of pain. Stephen brought the pipe up again and delivered a crushing blow to the front windshield. The physical pain of the improvised explosive devise whose scars would never leave, the pain of cancer that rocked and nearly ruined their family, the loss of brothers in arms he would never see again, words to his mother he could never take back. Rage erupted from his core and flowed out of him in the form of a guttural scream. With all his strength, he brought the pipe down onto the car again and again and again, desperate to push out the pain of that beautiful day.
Stephen couldn't remember how long he spent destroying the car. All he would later recall was that the car would be completely unrecognizable to the owner. Exhausted, he dropped his arms into his knees. A large slither of shattered safety glass from the windshield slipped off the dash and crunched onto the rough pavement. Despite being shattered, it kept its form and lay still; broken but held together in one piece. The pipe slipped from the grip of both hands and fell onto the floor with a loud rim shot which echoed in the silence.
Winded from his exertion, Stephen took in deep breaths of relief. He ignored the pipe and curiously stared at the fallen piece of windshield; broken but held together in one piece. "Damn, you're one strong piece of glass." He observed the unresponsive shards bound together in a mesmerizing spider web of damage. "Well, maybe you're not so strong, but whatever that stuff is they put in there to keep you together… tough, really tough."
He continued to huff with exhaustion when leaning over further caused his eye to meet the sun's radiant reflection bouncing off the broken glass. Squinting with irritated blindness, he fussed at the glass, "How can something so broken still shine so bright?"
What was it his mother had told him? Something about how when the strength of the sun shines through us it opens our eyes and allows us to see the needs of others. It was something about reflections and life. He was pretty sure it was more of her Jesus-talk.
Well, the sun is doing nothing but blinding me right now, Mom.
Exasperated, Stephen thought again about the prospect of losing his house. Wasn't it enough for him to lose his mother and have to deal with his daughter's ongoing health issues? Hadn't he done his part by going to war and nearly dying at the hands of unknown fanatics? What more was he supposed to go through? Why couldn't he ever catch a breath long enough for them to get ahead in this world?
"When am I supposed to get a break?" He shouted uncontrollably at the broken glass. Relieving his back from the awkward and uncomfortable hunch, he stood, turned towards home, placed the pain and burdens of his mind squarely on his own shoulders and began walking.
He woke the next morning wrecked with guilt at the immense damage he had done. Stephen jumped out of bed early the following morning and drove to where the abandoned car had been. The sedan wasn't there. The only reminders of his temporary dive into violent vandalism were the remnants of glass shards which blanketed the ground around the car's absence.
Distress continued to hang over him as Stephen returned to his own driveway and began walking towards his front door. Guilt turned to embarrassment as he saw Tom standing, not standing, blocking the front door to the house.
“Good… morning, Dad?” Stephen announced hesitantly. He felt like the soon-to-be grounded teenager who had just been caught lying about his whereabouts. He stood expectantly as Tom limped his hindered body towards his son.
Tom, expressionless, raised the one arm which still obeyed him and opened his palm. A set of keys rested among the aged fingers.
Unsure about his father’s purpose and clarity, Stephen dismissed Tom’s action. “Dad, I don’t really want to go for a drive right now.”
Stephen could see twitches in the muscles of Tom’s face attempt to convey an expression. The man’s lips did not move but Stephen could see them turning pale, almost as if the blood were being pushed out of them. It was scowl. Stephen realized that his father was actually scowling at him.
“Dad, I’m sorry. We can drive around later but I really just want to go inside and have some breakfast.”
Tom rolled the keys around in his finger, held them by the key ring and pressed the set directly in front of Stephen’s face.
Taking a step back to get a better look, Stephen realized the keys did not belong to his father’s car.
“Dad? Are those your house keys?”
Tom gripped the keys and rolled them around in his clenched hand to jingle the keys.
“You want me to take you to your house?”
Tom’s back arched as if from irritation and he began adamantly shaking the keys level with Stephen's face.
"I'm sorry, Dad. I don't know what you are trying to tell me." Stephen raised the palms of his hands up in a state of confusion but his voice revealed the irritation he felt towards his father's exhausting disability.
Tom lifted the keys in his hand and slammed them into Stephen's open palm. Then he clumsily turned to walk away.
Stephen watched his father slowly make it to the top of their steps when the awareness of his father's actions hit him.
"Dad! Wait."
Tom paused and with greater effort than it took to climb the stairs, he turned and faced Stephen.
"Dad, is this? Are you telling me?" He stumbled for words as if he was trying to find a playing card after having just dropped the entire deck. "Are you giving me the keys to your house?"
Stephen stared at his father with expectancy of some sort of verbal explanation or confirmation. The persistent blank look on Tom's face showed no signs of an impending response.
Tom's unmoving body told Stephen to continue.
"You're giving me the keys to your house for us to sell it?
A raise of Tom's head confirmed Stephen's question.
"Dad," his voice becoming overwhelmed with gratitude and sadness, "but your house? That's your house. I don't want to make you sell your house because of me."
Tom descended the stairs and walked to face his son. Locking into Stephen's eyes, Tom raised his one functional arm and used it to survey the expanse of Stephen's yard and home.
Catching on, Stephen hesitantly assured his father, "This is your home now?"
Tom's arm returned and gripped Stephen's shoulder with a soft squeeze.
"You're saving our house. You do know that, right? I can't tell you how much this helps. How much it means…" Stephen paused to steady his voice.
In the moment's pause, Tom raised his arm and waived his hand as if shaking off the gratitude. He returned to the stairs; negotiating them much more quickly than he had previously.
Stephen gripped the keys and watched his ailing father reenter his family's home; all of his family's home. His lungs released and a faint whisper emerged from his lips, "Thanks, Dad."
The white sign on the floor ahead was barely noticeable but its presence caught Stephen's eye. Sometime in the minute after he ran past the sign, his mind registered that he had read "Mile 21."
Over five more miles to go still?
The singular thought of running nearly another hour was enough to make him collapse on the spot. His body was aching and tender touches were evolving into painful points. Stephen wasn't doing well and he knew it. An imaginary vice wrapped around his back and continued to tighten. Rising stomach contractions were an overwhelming suggestion that drinking the entire bottle of that blue sports drink must have been another rookie mistake.
Stephen decided to do a "systems check" if for no other reason than to take his mind off the grueling pavement he labored along. Working his way up from the ground, he stole a glance at his shoes. Despite seeing they were stained, scuffed, and sweaty and would likely have to be burned to avoid a hazardous material team’s intervention, they seemed to be holding up well. He saw no real problems so far, other than the fact they didn't have wheels on them. He would have to remember that one.
He considered the state of his feet: certainly not the best of conditions. He looked down at the road but to his surprise he was not actually running along a bed of nails. Nevertheless, every step painfully drove the hard cotton material of his shoe into a deep blister growing along the outer callus on the innermost toe of his left foot. He was pretty sure there was one on his right foot as well but that whole area had gone completely numb. He decided the right blister had already popped and was now exposing his toe to some infectious bacteria growing in a blood-soaked sock. Or perhaps he couldn't feel it because the toe had simply fallen off. He reasoned that would probably be better than the bacteria. Regardless, the right side would be getting table scraps worth of attention in comparison to Mount St. Helen's eruption on the left foot.
Knees? How you guys doing down there? Shot to hell; okay then.
Each leg threatened to buckle under the failing he felt in his knees. He felt pain with every step of his stride as it crashed into the unforgiving slab of titanium people had apparently mistaken for asphalt. Stephen thought about the width of Hailey's old wheelchair and wondered if she'd mind sharing with her soon-to-be crippled father.
What the heck is going on with my hips? Why do they hurt so much?
Everything about Stephen’s hips just seemed to ache. He didn't know if it was the lower back reverberations firing pulses through the bones, but his entire pelvis had nearly gone numb. He could barely feel his hip-flexor muscles. For that matter, he couldn't even feel his shorts chaffing against his legs anymore. If there was a high note to the screams of his body it was the loss of that inner-thigh burn caused by his overly sweat-saturated running shorts. He dwelt on the feeling, or lack of feeling, of his running shorts. He questioned whether it was entirely possible to have lost the shorts somewhere in the last few miles; the thought gave him a humorous pause but it evolved into a concerned curiosity which no sensible man would bother entertaining. But Stephen was well past sensibility. He tried to resist the unreasonable thought that he might have actually lost his shorts, but it was futile. As ridiculous as it was, Stephen looked down just to make sure there was something still providing coverage to his waist.
"Alright," he lectured to himself. "Keep going. No police escorts to the finish line today."
With only a slight twinge of relief, he continued the inspection of his worn and wearing body. He had no idea why his shoulders were so exhausted. They were fatigued and he felt invisible sandbags resting upon each shoulder pressing him further down. The arms swung so low that his fingers were ready to overcome skeletal limitations and begin drooping into the rugged pavement. Stephen looked at the tense hands and released his tight grip on the air. It relieved some of the pressure on his shoulders and he wondered just how long he had been running with clenched fists. Regardless, the damage was done and the stiffness of his shoulders quickly returned.
"Come on, Mr. Stephen! You got this."
The voice startled his drift from aimless thoughts. Incapable of responding to his mind's curiosity, lethargic reflexes contributed barely enough muscular activity for him to lean his head backwards towards the voice's source. Entering his eye's corner with a steady plodding, Stephen saw the young lady from the starting line steadily approaching him.
Her pace dragged from an apparent, yet undecided conflict between determination and exhaustion. Previously brushed and attentively braided hair had become matted and it recoiled with every graceless step of her embattled stride.
With a high pitched, heavily labored voice she slowed her step alongside to match his pace, "We can do it Stephen. Just don't stop. We can do this."
The familiar voice in the midst of hostile territory gave an instant lift to his to demeanor and Stephen responded with a pained smile. "Hey Carrie. It's good to see you again."
He could see her cheeks were flush but, undeterred by the harsh journey, her smile remained ever-present.
"You're doing great, Carrie. Keep it up."
Carrie let out a pent-up burst of expression mixed with a healthy dose of sensationalized drama, "Oh my gosh, I am about to die! Seriously, Stephen- I'm pretty sure there's not a crime I wouldn't up and commit right now for just five minutes in a Krispy Kreme bakery."
Stephen responded with a hearty and reassuring smile, "I don't believe it. You're doing awesome. Are you seeing yourself?"
"Oh, I can see myself alright." Acting melodramatic, Carrie playfully filled her cheeks with air and made an exaggerated face at Stephen. "What do you think? Look just like a regular old Spartan, huh?"
Stephen released a spirited chuckle. "I really can't see the difference." He was immediately interrupted by a painful twitch in his lower back and let out a spontaneous, "Ouch!"
"You alright there? Wanna run together for a little while?"
"I'm okay, thanks. But you know, I think I've got something going on that I've gotta deal with. So you go on ahead."
Carrie's eyes moved beyond her entertaining self deprecation and looked at Stephen with empathy, "Leg cramps?"
"Could be. Could also be extraterrestrial abduction. Not sure yet."
"Okay, you just hang in there. If the little green men don't take you then I'm sure you'll be passing me pretty soon."
"Not likely, you're doing great. Keep it up."
"Alrighty, Mr. Stephen, you just take care of yourself and I'll see you at the finish line." Carrie quickened her stride and began exceeding Stephen's dwindling pace.
As she pulled away, Stephen's previous suspicions about Carrie's sister were confirmed. For relief from the rising temperatures, Carrie had tied her lightweig
ht pink pullover around her waist. It exposed her white t-shirt with an oversized picture of a beautiful twenty-something girl smiling for the camera while sitting atop a large stump in an open clearing. Words across the top of the shirt read "FOR AMY" and under the picture were two dates clearly representing the period of her lifespan.
"Go get ‘em, Carrie! You got this!" He yelled out with exhausted abandon.
A jubilant thumb launched into the air above her, and Carrie continued her steady pace into the fading horizon of Stephen's view.
Mile 22
Stephen suspected at least another quarter mile had passed between his self-diagnostic and the chat with Carrie. It was a small win in a mind that was firing on very few cylinders. He attempted to straighten his back and provide relief to the tender area between his nagging shoulder blades. Instantly, Stephen felt a stabbing twinge above the base of his spine. The sharpness caught him off guard. His eyes darted open and he gasped for breath as if he had jumped into a swimming pool much colder than anticipated. Stephen shifted his weight with each step and attempted to stretch and work out the odd, borderline alarming feeling. Without warning, his legs launched into a revolution against their created purpose. He tried to mentally justify why they should continue their pace but it was a one-sided argument. The debate was rudely interrupted by a severe cramp in his left inner-arm just opposite the elbow. The strain grew and continued until it rose up his sleeve in a sluggish but steady progression.