Mile Marker 215
Title: Mile Marker 215
Author: Kendra sykoxfreak
Summary: John’s thoughts between 12 miles of hot Kentucky asphalt.
Rating: PG But there is a few cusses
Notes: Made for (duh!) my Playlist. Prompt No. 7 Julie Roberts-"Break Down Here". Written for themicemen! Hopefully this one doesn’t make you cry!
The Playlist
Mile Marker 203.
He watched the asphalt up ahead, and attempted to concentrate on that. His arm was out the window and he was enjoying the feeling of the hot, hot sun beat down on him. He was clocking in at least 75 miles per hour, and the gas tank was leaning on the edge of E. He’ll be damned if the rain wasn’t going to start falling. The hood was starting to smoke, and there was something banging and clanking under the hood, and John knew that it can’t be good. And on top of that, it was 50 miles to the nearest town.
Everything John owns is in the back in a Hefty bag. His old gold 1987 Firebird 350 was filled up to the vinyl hood with the black bag, and next to him in the passenger seat were things that he planned on getting rid of soon. He was out of cigarettes, and was down to his last peaceful drag; the last drag that was keeping him sane.
John tore his eyes away from the absolutely empty road for a moment to stare at the memorabilia in the seat next to him. He shook his tired head, he had been driving for the last two days with no sleep, and put his dull brown eyes back on the road. Unexpectedly, his eye began to well up with tears. He hit the stearing wheel with the ball of his palms.
He’d sure hate to break down here. It was absolutely unfair! John shouldn’t be out here, alone. He should be back a Xavier’s; at his home. He wanted it to be like that. He wanted to be happy, to laugh; to be a fucking teenager again. The whole world forced him to grow up before he was really ready. The least thing time could do was slow down and give he some time to enjoy himself. Give himself time to actually feel like an 18 year old, before it was too late. And time allowed that, for a few months. But then time became a vindictive bitch, and made him grow up again. Not only that, but at the same damn time, broke his guarded heart.
John picked up the snow globe and shook it gently, looking at the road from time to time with still blurred vision. The faux snow swirled around the two boys that were trapped in the glass. They were happy, and smiling, and holding hands. John growled deep in the back of his throat. He passed the globe from his right hand to his left, and put his arm out the window.
The shattering glass and the splashing of water was all John heard as he dropped the gift. His heart suddenly swelled with pride for himself. He was letting go, slowly, but surely.
There was nothing up ahead or in the rearview mirror. He was out here, in the middle of nowhere knowing that he’s in trouble if these wheels stop rolling. "God, help me keep me moving somehow." John silently prayed. "Don’t let me start wishing that I was with him now."
He made it this far without crying a single tear, and he’ll be damned if he breaks down here.
Around fifty-thousand miles ago, before all the bad blood and the busted radio, he said John was all he ever need. He lied to John, and the boy sometimes silently wonders if it was all a lie. Was all the meaningful glances, and whispered words, and nights in each others bed all a lie? John didn’t want to accept it, so he didn’t. But that little voice in the back of his head was telling him, "Yes, it was all a lie. Why would he be with you when he has girl after girl throwing themselves at him?" John usually tells that voice to shut the hell up.
But, John reasons, love is blind and little did he know that he was nothing more than a dead end road. That road was paved with pretty lies and broken dreams, and it killed John the more and more he thought about it. John picked up a fake rose that was nearly melting in the Kentucky heat, and smiled bitterly at it. He gave John a dozen roses one day, 11 were real, but one was fake; the one in John’s fingers. "I’ll love you until the last rose dies."
Bloody liar.
John’s long arm pushed itself out the window, the wind pushing it back slightly. John let the rose slip between his fingers, and he never felt more…validated. More in control of himself.
Leaving him was hard, but it was easier than being gone. John watches the rose play in the warm Kentucky wind, but for it falls to the ground. John regrets it for a moment, then he remembers how he lied to him, and he suddenly doesn’t care anymore. Why should he?
Bobby never did.
John doesn’t know what he’ll do if one more thing goes wrong. Things were falling apart in front of his eyes. He lost his mom, lost his friends, lost his love, and lost his heart. His world was ripped from under him, and John was left sitting on his ass. He loved Bobby so much, and he knew that too, and when he had the nerve to do that…Oh, no.
John picked up the second to last thing in the passenger seat. It was one of those picture things that you can get at the mall; the one where you go in the booth and it only cost three dollars. John looked at the five pictures. The fist one was just him, the second just Bobby. The third one had both of them and a little bit of Jubilee’s head. John smiled slightly, but lost it when he saw the fourth one.
John was smiling wide while Bobby was placing a kiss on his cheek. John blinked back the tears, but they took a mind of their own, and fell into his lap. The last one was one of them in a liplock. It was a simple kiss, just lips. Even though it was in black and white, Bobby had a glow to him. Like…like he was radiating the love onto John. The 18 year old flipped the pictures over. Bobby’s scribble was across the back.
No matter what happens, I will always love you. Don’t believe what anyone says. I do. I Love You, St. John Allerdyce.
"Bloody liar."
John put his arm out the window again, and let the paper flap against his hand. He let it go, never once regretting it. He blinked, letting the tears fall down his cheeks. He’d really, really hate to break down here, but he knew that it was gonna happen. John glanced in the rearview mirror, still seeing nothing, except the pictures dance in the wind and his exhaust.
John just passed a sign that read the next town was 40 miles away: still in the middle of nowhere. The banging and clanging noise seemed to grow louder over the last few miles. If these wheels stop rolling, he’s in real trouble. He prays to God again. John asks Him to help him keep moving somehow.
Suddenly, he starts wishing he was with Bobby now. He wishes he was wrapped in his arms, snuggling into his welcoming cold. He wishes he was kissing those too soft lips, that had slight cracks in them. He wishes he was sleeping with him again, just sleeping. He wishes he could star into those blue eyes, and loose himself again, like he always did. He wishes Bobby would still love him like he still loved him. John wonders if it’s too late to turn around. He wonders if it’s too early to break down. He folds his head down for a moment. Then looks back up at the highway.
John’s grip on the stearing wheel tightens, and the tears get wiped angrily away. It is too late to turn around.
Mile Marker 215.
Author: Kendra sykoxfreak
Summary: John’s thoughts between 12 miles of hot Kentucky asphalt.
Rating: PG But there is a few cusses
Notes: Made for (duh!) my Playlist. Prompt No. 7 Julie Roberts-"Break Down Here". Written for themicemen! Hopefully this one doesn’t make you cry!
The Playlist
Mile Marker 203.
He watched the asphalt up ahead, and attempted to concentrate on that. His arm was out the window and he was enjoying the feeling of the hot, hot sun beat down on him. He was clocking in at least 75 miles per hour, and the gas tank was leaning on the edge of E. He’ll be damned if the rain wasn’t going to start falling. The hood was starting to smoke, and there was something banging and clanking under the hood, and John knew that it can’t be good. And on top of that, it was 50 miles to the nearest town.
Everything John owns is in the back in a Hefty bag. His old gold 1987 Firebird 350 was filled up to the vinyl hood with the black bag, and next to him in the passenger seat were things that he planned on getting rid of soon. He was out of cigarettes, and was down to his last peaceful drag; the last drag that was keeping him sane.
John tore his eyes away from the absolutely empty road for a moment to stare at the memorabilia in the seat next to him. He shook his tired head, he had been driving for the last two days with no sleep, and put his dull brown eyes back on the road. Unexpectedly, his eye began to well up with tears. He hit the stearing wheel with the ball of his palms.
He’d sure hate to break down here. It was absolutely unfair! John shouldn’t be out here, alone. He should be back a Xavier’s; at his home. He wanted it to be like that. He wanted to be happy, to laugh; to be a fucking teenager again. The whole world forced him to grow up before he was really ready. The least thing time could do was slow down and give he some time to enjoy himself. Give himself time to actually feel like an 18 year old, before it was too late. And time allowed that, for a few months. But then time became a vindictive bitch, and made him grow up again. Not only that, but at the same damn time, broke his guarded heart.
John picked up the snow globe and shook it gently, looking at the road from time to time with still blurred vision. The faux snow swirled around the two boys that were trapped in the glass. They were happy, and smiling, and holding hands. John growled deep in the back of his throat. He passed the globe from his right hand to his left, and put his arm out the window.
The shattering glass and the splashing of water was all John heard as he dropped the gift. His heart suddenly swelled with pride for himself. He was letting go, slowly, but surely.
There was nothing up ahead or in the rearview mirror. He was out here, in the middle of nowhere knowing that he’s in trouble if these wheels stop rolling. "God, help me keep me moving somehow." John silently prayed. "Don’t let me start wishing that I was with him now."
He made it this far without crying a single tear, and he’ll be damned if he breaks down here.
Around fifty-thousand miles ago, before all the bad blood and the busted radio, he said John was all he ever need. He lied to John, and the boy sometimes silently wonders if it was all a lie. Was all the meaningful glances, and whispered words, and nights in each others bed all a lie? John didn’t want to accept it, so he didn’t. But that little voice in the back of his head was telling him, "Yes, it was all a lie. Why would he be with you when he has girl after girl throwing themselves at him?" John usually tells that voice to shut the hell up.
But, John reasons, love is blind and little did he know that he was nothing more than a dead end road. That road was paved with pretty lies and broken dreams, and it killed John the more and more he thought about it. John picked up a fake rose that was nearly melting in the Kentucky heat, and smiled bitterly at it. He gave John a dozen roses one day, 11 were real, but one was fake; the one in John’s fingers. "I’ll love you until the last rose dies."
Bloody liar.
John’s long arm pushed itself out the window, the wind pushing it back slightly. John let the rose slip between his fingers, and he never felt more…validated. More in control of himself.
Leaving him was hard, but it was easier than being gone. John watches the rose play in the warm Kentucky wind, but for it falls to the ground. John regrets it for a moment, then he remembers how he lied to him, and he suddenly doesn’t care anymore. Why should he?
Bobby never did.
John doesn’t know what he’ll do if one more thing goes wrong. Things were falling apart in front of his eyes. He lost his mom, lost his friends, lost his love, and lost his heart. His world was ripped from under him, and John was left sitting on his ass. He loved Bobby so much, and he knew that too, and when he had the nerve to do that…Oh, no.
John picked up the second to last thing in the passenger seat. It was one of those picture things that you can get at the mall; the one where you go in the booth and it only cost three dollars. John looked at the five pictures. The fist one was just him, the second just Bobby. The third one had both of them and a little bit of Jubilee’s head. John smiled slightly, but lost it when he saw the fourth one.
John was smiling wide while Bobby was placing a kiss on his cheek. John blinked back the tears, but they took a mind of their own, and fell into his lap. The last one was one of them in a liplock. It was a simple kiss, just lips. Even though it was in black and white, Bobby had a glow to him. Like…like he was radiating the love onto John. The 18 year old flipped the pictures over. Bobby’s scribble was across the back.
No matter what happens, I will always love you. Don’t believe what anyone says. I do. I Love You, St. John Allerdyce.
"Bloody liar."
John put his arm out the window again, and let the paper flap against his hand. He let it go, never once regretting it. He blinked, letting the tears fall down his cheeks. He’d really, really hate to break down here, but he knew that it was gonna happen. John glanced in the rearview mirror, still seeing nothing, except the pictures dance in the wind and his exhaust.
John just passed a sign that read the next town was 40 miles away: still in the middle of nowhere. The banging and clanging noise seemed to grow louder over the last few miles. If these wheels stop rolling, he’s in real trouble. He prays to God again. John asks Him to help him keep moving somehow.
Suddenly, he starts wishing he was with Bobby now. He wishes he was wrapped in his arms, snuggling into his welcoming cold. He wishes he was kissing those too soft lips, that had slight cracks in them. He wishes he was sleeping with him again, just sleeping. He wishes he could star into those blue eyes, and loose himself again, like he always did. He wishes Bobby would still love him like he still loved him. John wonders if it’s too late to turn around. He wonders if it’s too early to break down. He folds his head down for a moment. Then looks back up at the highway.
John’s grip on the stearing wheel tightens, and the tears get wiped angrily away. It is too late to turn around.
Mile Marker 215.