Peter
After leaving the convenience store, Peter made his way to the car.
The new attendant seemed like a good kid. She clearly didn’t know anything about music, but she had humored him.
Most people didn’t humor him. They usually tried their best to get him to shut up. Get him to stay on track. Make him go away.
He worked at a small clinic in Blackstone, the only one that stayed open late in this part of the island. There were emergencies, sure, but it was also a lot of lonely people.
That suited him.
People up that late, people that needed help – they would talk to him. Night people got each other. They knew what it was like to live like that.
That girl was new, but she’d get it soon, too.
He reached his car – a dented red compact – and opened the door. Knees creaking, he leaned in and sat before closing the door and grabbing his keys.
Maybe next time he’d bring a CD for her. Spread that Seadogs pride.
He turned the ignition and was met with a familiar blend of folk music and bluesy country.
Almost familiar.
Something about it was wrong, like static blending in the background.
To and fro, the foreign tone heaved and strained against the subtle melody of the Dogs.
Was the radio going out?
He’d just replaced the damn thing. Frustrated, he fiddled with the dials until he recognized the pattern. He froze, straightening back in his chair.
It was breathing.
He tried to turn, but there was already pressure against his mouth, pulling him back against the seat. He struggled helplessly, flailing against the faux leather of the chair. But he was tired…so very tired.
Through bleary eyes, he saw shadows dancing on the windows.
Maybe she would see. She could come and help him, she could save him—
Pain exploded in his back and sliced its way out through his chest.
The force held firm. He couldn’t look down, but he could feel hot blood running down his chest and pooling where his shirt rode up against his beer gut.
So much pain, and he was so tired. He could struggle more. Surely, he could fight back. He just needed a rest, just a moment to catch his breath…then he would fight against it.
His eyes grew dim, but his hearing seemed to sharpen, hyper-fixated on the blues guitar. The melody pulled him in, as the lyrics whisked him away.
I don’t feel alone when I sing to the moon.
Jacob Marsh 