The Enigma’s Anomaly

“Yo dude, why are you walking in the middle of nowhere?” A voice asks and I turn to see a red pickup truck with two men. The car has slowed to a snails crawl in time with my steps.

Both are wearing white T-shirts, and I suspect they’ve got ratty jeans. They’re both plain looking. One of them is butch and heavy-set. The other is, the one behind the driver’s seat, coltish. The only thing that really distinguishes their boring faces apart is that one has a pervy mustache, and the other has a baseball cap.

“Just out on a stroll, in the nice... humidly disgusting weather,” I say absently. I want them to go away. I don’t want to talk. I want to mope. I want to kick myself for saying those things to Gerard, but some of them were true, so I just don’t know what to think.

“Crying?” The baseball cap guy says. The driver is the one with the mustache, and if I had to choose the uglier one I’d say it’s the mustache.

“Not crying. Just releasing an aqueous solution of liquefied particles from the ducts in my eyes,” I say feeling vexed.

“So, crying then,” the mustache says. Oh how dull, their voices are even the same. It’s not that they actually look all that alike, but you see enough of these jaunty muscled fellows who reek of chewing tobacco and they start becoming insipid.

“You could make that argument. If you’ll excuse me I’d like to get back to my ambling, so move along.”

“Well what’re you doin’ all the way out here, boy?” Oh the mustache is southern. Isn’t that wonderful.

“Please go away,” I say assertively, and I come to a halt but so does their car.

“He asked you a question,” the baseball cap says.

“I’m having a barbecue with my many friends,” I gesticulate to the trees around me, “can’t you fucking tell?”

“Why’re you cryin’?” The mustache asks.

“Because I’m really emotionally traumatized by the state of affairs in our country’s ongoing fiscal crisis!” I say, and I am so far beyond trying to be polite. I want these fuckers to get the hell away from me and drive.

“I don’t know what the hell you just said, but I know that ain’t why yous cryin’.”

“If I tell you would you please just go away?” I ask.

“We’ll consider it,” the baseball cap says.

“I had a fight with my significant other,” I say.

“Out here in the middle of nothing?” baseball cap asks.

“Well, no it was indoors at the time.”

The mustache laughs openly at me, and then spits out of his side of the truck which is, thankfully, nowhere near me. The other one just gives me this weird face that looks like an attempt at a knowing smile.

“I hear you boy, them bitches is always causing trouble,” the mustache says.

“Okay, first of all, how dare you refer to women as ‘them bitches’ in such sexist a manner? And second, ew.”

“Why’s that?” the baseball cap asks.

“Because,” I shrug. I’m not really keen about explaining my life story to a couple of annoying guys whose husky car is definitely a sign of overcompensation.

“Hold on, boy. You meaning to tell me that yous into guys?” The mustache asks, and the way that the baseball cap looks at me tells me that being gay is not something that they are okay with.

“I never said that,” I say defensively.

“Ya didn’t not say it.”

“That was a double negative, sir. You might want to consider taking a class at your local elementary school to remedy that,” I say, and even I can hear how pompous I’m sounding.

“Oh now come on,” I frown as they hop out of the car and look down at my puny little self. “I mean, I get that I’m a smartass, but isn’t it just overly cliché to mug me here? Like, seriously, could you please have a little creativity?”

The mustache doesn’t look all that amused, and I back up from him.

“How about I make a proposition. Either you two steal all my stuff and drive on off into the sunset, or you just make it quick and snap my neck now. I’m not in the mood to get beaten up, I got shot less than a month ago, I’m still sore,” I say monotonously.

“Oh yeah? You got shot?” the baseball cap asks, “Prove it.”

“Well alright, but be warned, I have to take my shirt off, so if either of you gets deeply excited by male nipples you might want to look away now,” I say. They don’t really seem to like my sense of humor. I get that. It’s pretty out there.

“No, seriously, if you’re going to kill me, get it over with. Actually, would you?” I ask, and then hear how hopeless and awful I sound. “Would you just kill me so that I don’t have to go through this anymore? It’s really bumming me out, and everything would all just be so much easier. Maybe he’ll love me when I’m dead. Well, a boy can dream, can’t he?”

The two men bearing down on me look absolutely disgusted with me and my attitude, and don’t make any moves to do anything. If I weren’t sore I could run away, but they have a car, and I don’t feel like it. They might be my ticket out of this hell. I’m so fucking sick of being a wanted man, and now I don’t even have Gerard to cling to, so what’s the goddamn point?

“Nah, we ain’t gonna kill ya,” the mustache says.

“But I’ll have your wallet, phone, and shoes,” he says.

“Why shoes, isn’t that a bit odd?” I ask.

“I like ‘em,” he says with a shrug.

“Well, have at them then,” I say stepping out of one and then the other. “Please just do away with me or don’t hurt me though. Don’t make it worse?”

“Show me the bullet hole. I’ve never seen one before,” the baseball cap says.

“Well alright,” I say, and I pull my shirt over my head tediously, because I’m too spent to care anymore.

“Sick,” the guy says, in the slang use of the word.

“How’d you get that?” the mustache asks.

“I brought a comic book artist to a gun fight,” I tell him. I have to say, as far as muggers go, these guys are much friendlier then they could be.

About a minute later I find myself lying on the ground, wallet-less and phone-less, but the only person I ever called on that phone was Gerard anyway, and now I wouldn’t call him if I had a phone.

I fucked up, what can I say? They took my shirt, because apparently they are both fans of Iron Maiden. I mean, they may have mugged me, but at least they had good taste in music.

At least they didn’t really hurt me, just punched me in the face and then the mustache stepped right on my chest, right where it hurts. It wasn’t too bad, all things considering, but I can’t stand up, and I feel like my shoulder is exploding. I don’t have any goddamn painkillers because I left them at the goddamn house. I’m not even sure if I can stand up because the pain is screaming like I’ve been shot all over again.

I kind of wish it had been worse though, enough to have taken me out of my misery. I would go lay down in the middle of the street, but part of me is too scared of how that would make the next driver feel. If I were to lie down in the middle of the street for someone to drive over, then I may ruin their life with guilt or something, and I don’t want that. I don’t know what I want. I want to have my phone back, but I have no one to call.

It’s starting to get late, the sun is setting and the air smells like oncoming rain. The gravel under my bare back is starting to chafe against my skin, and I’m tired. I want to... I don’t even know.

I can’t stop thinking of how I’d have been able to handle those men if the situation was different. I could’ve ambushed them when they tried to take me down, and stolen their car. If it weren’t for this fucking bullet hole.

I’d have been able to stop them and really take them down had I not been shot not too long ago. It’s still hard to do much of anything so I just had to let them take my damn stuff, and it was whatever.

I can’t find the room to really care. I only had a couple of bucks and a maxed out credit card anyway. My library card was in there though so maybe the mustache can use that to get a book on how to speak proper English.

I don’t know what time it is, but the dark is coming in fast, and I’m going to get stuck out here at night if I don’t move. How long have I been lying on the ground anyway? An hour maybe.

I groan, and then pull myself up into a sitting position.

“Ow,” I mope as the stinging in my shoulder strengthens. At least it’s not bleeding.

I have to find a town or something, and I can work out what to do from there. I feel miserable, true, but thinking on it with a clearer head, I’m not going to kill myself over Gerard. I was fine with it if someone else did it, but I’m really not the suicide type. Not over a guy, at least. How sad would that be? It’s how I feel right now, but... who am I kidding I’m not getting over him.

It’s so stupid, but if there was ever a person I could have seen a future with it was that fucking dork with his fucking hand gestures, and his fucking red hair. I love everything about him, from his stupid fucking brother who’s just really great to his cute fucking laugh that sounds like cloud nine.

He’s not here though, and he said it himself, he doesn’t love me. Who could blame him? I don’t, that’s for sure. I don’t even know if I’m mad at him, or if I’m just angry with myself for messing up so royally. I’ve just got to get up and start trekking. Keep moving forward. Walk even though there’s an endless hole inside my stomach eating away at everything.

Why does no one ever tell you that love is fucking excruciating? Even when they do warn you, they never come close to encompassing the shit that love is. The crazy thing about it is that it also feels amazing. Love is the best feeling in the world when it’s by your side, and the worst in the world when you haven’t got shit.

It takes me about five minutes to find the courage to sit up, and I’m surprised that not a single car has driven by since the two guys, but it’s not a very busy road.

I have no idea what direction the house is from here, but I don’t think I want to go back anyway. I also don’t even remember which direction I was coming from.

I’ll just find the nearest town. Might have to walk all night, but I can manage.

I just hope it doesn’t rain.

As soon as I think that the quiet is interrupted by a gigantic clap of near-deafening thunder. It’s only a matter of seconds before it starts torrentially raining over me.

“Of course,” I mutter, and I start moving my feet down the road.