(no subject)
He shouldn't be back here. It's a refrain that's been playing over and over in his head since he left, and he shouldn't have even come this far, not on a regular pass, not when he's not sure what's even at the end of it, but it's been a week and a half, and he should be over it by now. Quick grope in the cab of the truck--this truck, borrowed again, and when he really concentrates he thinks maybe he can still smell them in it. Beer, pot smoke, sex. And if that had been any kind of a tip-off, at least there's no way to tell who had been involved in it with him. Sex is sex. Body parts are something else.
And all of this is something else.
"Fuck," he mutters, fingers tapping impatient little patterns on the steering wheel as he rolls through the shitty little town, identical to any number of other shitty little towns he's been through, except for one important thing. And how is he expecting to find it? What is he even looking for?
He doesn't fucking know. But here he is.
He's actually entertaining--not entirely speculatively--the idea of rolling down the window and trying to stop someone on the street--Hey, do you know this kid named Neil, about yea high, skinny, dark hair, tongue that could melt the fucking paint off a wall?--when he slides past a ratty-looking playground and does a double-take. It's pretty distant, almost a football field away, but in the daylight, in the dark, whichever; he doesn't think he could mistake that lanky aspect.
He's been seeing it when he closes his eyes.
"Fuck," he mutters again, pulling to a stop and just looking. Creepy. Really, really fucking creepy. And watching him there, half leaning on one of the swingsets, he looks a lot younger. Maybe just the context. Maybe not. Is he technically a rapist now? Would that even be that significant a step down?
Something twists in his chest and he feels a corresponding twist of impotent anger. He's not doing this. He's staying in this fucking truck, and he's going back to Fort Riley.
Any second now.
And all of this is something else.
"Fuck," he mutters, fingers tapping impatient little patterns on the steering wheel as he rolls through the shitty little town, identical to any number of other shitty little towns he's been through, except for one important thing. And how is he expecting to find it? What is he even looking for?
He doesn't fucking know. But here he is.
He's actually entertaining--not entirely speculatively--the idea of rolling down the window and trying to stop someone on the street--Hey, do you know this kid named Neil, about yea high, skinny, dark hair, tongue that could melt the fucking paint off a wall?--when he slides past a ratty-looking playground and does a double-take. It's pretty distant, almost a football field away, but in the daylight, in the dark, whichever; he doesn't think he could mistake that lanky aspect.
He's been seeing it when he closes his eyes.
"Fuck," he mutters again, pulling to a stop and just looking. Creepy. Really, really fucking creepy. And watching him there, half leaning on one of the swingsets, he looks a lot younger. Maybe just the context. Maybe not. Is he technically a rapist now? Would that even be that significant a step down?
Something twists in his chest and he feels a corresponding twist of impotent anger. He's not doing this. He's staying in this fucking truck, and he's going back to Fort Riley.
Any second now.