On Our Way to Oklahoma

Winter was settling in slowly, as if it was scared to fight off the blistering heat of summer. The moon hung low in the sky, the sun’s last rays barely peeking over the trees when he showed up at my window. I stared at him in startled silence before cautiously slipping out of my bed and sliding the window open. He pressed his hands against the screen impatiently, movements jittery and anxious. Carefully, I pressed the sharp blade of my pocket knife against the screen frame and pried it from the window. He struggled to pull himself up and I grabbed the back of his hoodie, hauling him up until he fell through. We both tumbled to the ground, freezing and holding our breath in fear that we had awoken my sister in the next room. His bony frame sagged against me in relief and I pushed a hand against his shoulder complaining, “Elliot, you got your elbow in my ribs.”

He looked down at me in surprise, eyes not quite focused. “Oh,” he muttered, clumsily rolling to the side, “Sorry.”

For the first time that night, I got a good look at him. The front of his shirt was damp, crimson blood still dripping from his nose. Purpling black bruises colored the right side of his handsome face, blending with faded green bruise that circled around from the back of his neck. His coffee colored eyes were bloodshot and rimmed in red, like he’d been crying. My chest tightened at the way he avoided my gaze, pale hands tugging at his sleeves of the too big hoodie.

“I’m leaving,” he whispered, voice strangled and hoarse. Elliot looked up at me expectantly. I stared blankly. “Come with me?” he offered. I sat down on the floor next to him, letting him lean into me.

It was different this time I knew. Elliot often swore that he was leaving but this time he really meant it. He was asking this time, not telling, not whispering his plans in that hopeful tone that told stories of beautiful futures on the west coast, days spent in the ocean. The tone he used to describe our successes as artists. I loved the stories that he would tell: stories of long days in the warmth, of the cities he would tour as a musician, of the pictures I would capture and the drawings that I would put on display in the most revered museums. His stories were nothing like the reality of the tiny town of southern Illinois that we lived in. Even knowing they would never come true, we dared to voice our most hidden ambitions.

“Won’t you come with me?” he whimpered, “Just like we planned so many times.”

“Elliot, I-” I stopped short, not knowing what to say. I wanted desperately to go with him, to see the world. But I was afraid, and I didn’t want to leave my mother. His arm stretched across my legs, pushing them down so he could lay his head on my lap. Chewing on my lower lip, I combed my fingers through his obsidian black hair, gently tugging out knots. My stomach tied itself up, like it was meaning to make a noose for the heart that beat unsteadily in my chest. I swallowed the bile in my throat as the dried blood in his hair got caught beneath my nails, flaking messily onto my thighs. “Mom’ll be ok without me, won’t she?” I asked, secretly fearing that he would respond. I let out a slow breath when he didn’t. “She’s got Emily,” I told myself, “She’ll be fine so long as she’s got Emily.” Tears pricked the corners of my eyes, “They all said she don’t need me. It won’t matter if I’m gone with you.” A sob bubbled in my throat. Elliot pressed closer, letting me shift around until I was able to hide my face against his chest. He didn’t say a word as he rubbed my arms comfortingly. It took me few more minutes but eventually I calmed down, sitting up again. “Let me pack,” I muttered.

Elliot sat up quietly, watching with mournful eyes as I packed my duffel bag as full of clothes as I could. “I got a truck,” he said. I stared at him before following his gaze to the heavier, more durable suitcase sitting in the bottom of my closet. I wondered whose truck he had taken but ultimately didn’t care. As quietly as we could, we tossed the heavy duffel bag through the window. I snuck through the house like a mouse hiding from the cat, making several trips to and from the kitchen with as many nonperishable foods as I could. After only a few trips, I had most of the canned goods, packs of honeyed jerky, several water bottles wrapped in plastic, and a loaf of bread. We packed them into the suitcase carefully, deciding to leave the bread out once we realized it would just get mashed. Then we packed my books and art supplies. It was a difficult decision to leave behind my engraved copy of all of Edgar Allen Poe’s works.

“What else do we need?” We sat in the floor on either side of the suitcase stupidly, looking at it as if it could answer us.

“Got wood in the truck bed already and found a flint, knife, and lighter in glove box,” Elliot nodded slowly as he spoke, as if drugged. He suddenly lugged himself to his feet, swaying lopsidedly as he grabbed my sword from its display on my dresser. “Someone might have a bigger knife,” he said seriously. I couldn’t help the laugh that escaped, short and harsh like a startled deer. Elliot grinned, pulling open the almost healed cut on his lip as we both attempted to smother giggles behind our hands.

I nudged him towards my bedroom door, still smiling as I tugged him into the dark hallway. As quiet as thieves, we tiptoed to the bathroom down the hall and I left him there to take a quick shower. When I came back with jeans and a hoodie bundled under my arm, he was still in the shower, no doubt enjoying water that actually got hot. I sat on the counter with the door shut, tracing designs into the steam covered mirror. I looked up when he stepped out of the shower, reaching for the fluffy towel and shivering. Something cold wrapped itself around my heart, reaching into my throat as a sickening heat made my stomach roll and pitch like a tiny sailboat on the high seas during a hurricane.

Elliot had his back to me and I prayed to a God that I didn’t believe in that these were the worst of his wounds. The whole right side of his back was various shades of pale reds, midnight blues, and eggplant purple. Deep, swelling cuts were spread all through the bruises like a sketch gone wrong. I could just make out the shape of large hand wrapped around his bicep. A thick, shallow cut split the skin on his left shin and both legs were badly scraped and bruised. He wrapped the towel low on his hips, limping to where I sat with the med-kit.

I wanted to ask but I couldn’t force the words out. Instead I said, “The burns look like they’re healing nicely.” Elliot grunted, not really caring about the three pink puckered scars standing out ghoulishly against his soft skin. He leaned against the sink, exposing his back so that I could doctor his wounds. Elliot never complained, just kept his head bowed and drowned out any whimpers and hisses of pain against the meat of his forearm. When I was done, Elliot slid on the clothes I offered stiffly and I packed the med-kit into the suitcase.

Neither of us said a word as I snuck my dog into my room. Guilt made me hesitate before I grabbed the wads of money hidden under the false bottom of the chest in the living room. I shut my bedroom door tightly, locking it behind me. Elliot climbed out the window again and I propped the now completely packed suitcase against the window. It took several minutes for me to wrestle the suitcase over the edge of the window and into Elliot’s grasp. Once we got that out I handed him my little dog, shut off the light, and climbed through the window after him, replacing the screen and taking my dog, Harley, from his arms. I slipped into the barn, grabbing a rope for a leash to walk Harley. Silently, Elliot and I walked down the drive, the duffel bag fastened to the suitcase so we could drag it more easily to the truck, which was turned off and hidden about a quarter mile down the road. The truck, I realized, belonged to Jake and Joseph, two of Elliot’s older brothers. If they caught us, Joseph would be livid, belt off to beat some sense into us with. Jake would hover behind him, trying to calm his violent-minded twin.

Stupidly, we never bothered to check the gas, driving out on the highway just passed midnight, heavy metal screaming through the speakers with the volume turned down quiet like a whisper. I tried not to look at Elliot when I drove, the full moon’s white face turning his skin silver and greenish blue where he was bruised as he slumped against the cold window, black hair turned blue as water dripped onto his shoulder. After panting excitedly in his spot between me and Elliot, Harley realized we weren’t going anywhere special and climbed into my lap to gaze out the window, occasionally growling at cars that flew past at dangerous speeds even though I was already going over seventy miles an hour. It felt like years had passed when the engine suddenly sputtered, the whole truck shuddering. Elliot jolted awake, eyes wide and frightened. I stared in mute horror at the gas gauge, the needle pointing at the crimson “E”. I pulled off the to the side of the road and Elliot scrambled across the seat, mouth open as he stared blankly at the gas gauge.

A strangled noise tore from his throat and he was suddenly slamming the door shut as he got out of the truck. I flicked on the hazard lights before scrambling out after him. Elliot was sitting with his back pressed to the front tire, painful sounding wheezes ripping from his chest, eyes shut tight. I touched his shoulder gently only to be shoved back, the gravel scraping my hands as I fell. Elliot snarled like a beast, screeching and spitting curses like fire as he took his anger out on the old truck. He beat the rusted fender until his knuckles bled freely and tears were streaming down his face. He sobbed as he dropped to his knees, cursing everything he hated about the world, cursing his father, cursing his brothers, cursing his luck, cursing the truck, and even cursing himself.

I didn’t move to comfort him until he stopped and just sat on the ground and tried to swallow his rising panic. Cautiously, I touched his hand and he hauled me closer to him, his fingers digging in harshly against my side and his breath heavy against my bare neck. He curled around me, quiet apologies never ceasing. For the life of me, I couldn’t explain why those hurt more than his violent, hate-filled curses.

We stayed like that until a shiny minivan appeared behind us, the bright lights nearly blinding us. The van’s driver, a blond woman with a motherly air, approached slowly. “Are you okay?” she called, stopping to crouch a few feet away, watching Elliot’s shuddering frame nervously. She tugged her thin jacket around herself tighter.

“Can I use your phone?” I asked, my voice strEllioty croaky. She looked confused but nodded, taking her phone out of her pocket. I glanced down at Elliot as I dialed.

The phone rang once, twice, before a drawling voice answered, “Y’ello?”

“Jake?”

A heavy silence then, “Yeah? Who this?”

“It’s me, Cassie.”

Jake snorted, “Where my truck at, girlie?”

Elliot’s grip tightened on my waist and I sighed, “Two and a half hours west, on I-44 towards Oklahoma.”

“Oklahoma? You headed out west?”

“We were, yeah. You gonna help us out?” I asked. I didn’t tell him we were headed for Los Elliotes in California.

Jake grumbled under his breath before sighing tiredly, “Two and half hours, y’said?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright.” The line clicked dead and I handed the woman her phone.

Again, she asked, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I lied, “We’ll survive. Always do.” She didn’t seem to like the answer but accepted that she wasn’t going to get the truth. She offered to stay with us but Elliot snarled at her to leave, his breathing still ragged and his eyes dead, like a soldier fresh from the battlefield. Hesitating with guilt flashing in her eyes, the woman stood up. Her movements were slow, like she thought Elliot would attack if she moved too fast. She got back in her vehicle and disappeared into the night.

No one else stopped until Jake showed up in a borrowed car with Joseph and enough gas to refill the truck and get us back home. Joseph drove the truck back, in case there were any other problems with it. He didn’t say a word to either of us. Joseph didn't even look mad about us stealing from him. Jake gave us both that disappointed look he had perfected over the years; it was enough to make you sick from guilt and utter impossible promises to be better. The only thing Jake said on the way home was, “How far did you two think you’d get without a fucking driver’s license? God, you’re only thirteen,” he had scoffed, the corners of his mouth turning down the way they did when he was trying not to cry.