John Enter, the Writer -

[KFC]

He doesn't have to care. His work isn't for the children.

His fanbase is brimming with underage kids (Daan, Stancakes, etc.)

 

[chimpburgers]

His fanbase is brimming with underage kids (Daan, Stancakes, etc.)

Don't forget the ones over 18. We've found a lot of those like bennythebeast, animatedjames, and artisanking.

 

[Piga Dgrifm]

Chapter 3:

The ring of the telephone wakes me up. My back aches as though it had been pummeled with a shovel. The telephone rings once again and I jolt up, only to hit my head on the bottom of a hard surface. Once the pain subsides I can clearly see what happened. I must have been exhausted as all hell last night. I passed out on my living room floor and just banged my head into the coffee table. The phone rings once more, and as soon I have my bearings I answer it.

"Rob where are you? We were supposed to meet for breakfast."

"Lucy, is that you? Shit what time is it? Ugh, goddammit my head."

"It's eleven. Were you out... drinking last night?" Lucy asks. My silence seems to provide her with the answer. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, I've just got a lot on my mind. Look, I'll take you out to dinner tonight. Right now I just want to be alone," I say and I hang up the phone before she has a chance to respond.

My head slams down onto the coffee table. My eyes feel bloodshot and my face is dampened with what seems to be sweat. I'd like to say that I forgot what I had done last night but not even alcohol could poison those memories and moments. Today is destined to be a wasted day, as is tomorrow. No matter what happens in the next two days they will be purged from my memory. There seems to be no better time than to embrace hedonism.

Throughout the day I have run through hobbies and joys that I had long forgotten. I read books that lay forlorn and dusty. I watched movies that once made me laugh and that once made me cry. I replaced the brakes on my rusty bicycle and went on the first ride I had had in years. Though the day sludged on, it was much more bearable than the former. I can't say that I was disappointed, but I can't say that I was truly relieved either.

Once again the sun gives up on another day. In the dim twilight there is a ring at my doorbell. I open the door and am beset by surprise. Lucy stands at the threshold of my house. I am unsure of my own expressions. My only clue is her look of concern, but it may just be the residue from our conversation earlier.

"Are you okay?" she asks me. "I've been trying to get a hold of you all day, but you wouldn't answer your phone."

"I've been out. All day," I respond. I take my windbreaker off of the coat hanger, already annoyed about the questions to follow.

"But your cellphone..."

"I left it at home."

"Please tell me what's going on, you've never acted like this before."

"I've never been in this situation before," I say bluntly and head out the door. "Who's going to drive?"

I step down my porch stairs, barely hearing her response. At the final step I have returned to the atmosphere of hostility. Something pulses through my mind. I run up to my trash can and kick it into the street. Tattered remains of whatever the garbage men neglected to take spill all over the road. I take a deep breath and bring the barrel back in.

"What's going on?" Lucy asks.

"You're not an idiot," I say as I approach Lucy's car. "Don't make me connect the dots for you."

We sit silently in the car, riding through an air of discomfort. She looks to me every once in a while and prepares to ask a question. I return a look that answers the question before it can be asked. I eventually grow tired of painting the obvious and close my eyes in an attempt to get some fragments of rest. The bumps and stirs of the road prevent me from disappearing from the world.

"You've got to talk about this," Lucy says. "It's really bothering you."

"And what will talking do? Will it stop them from being at each other's throats? Will it make all of the bad things go away? Will it help that little girl?"

"What little girl?" Lucy asks.

She almost stops the car in surprise. A horn blares in the background before a car barely swerves around us. I hope that that's enough for Lucy to forget the question, but my hopes vanish as soon as the car returns to its full speed. She doesn't say another word. She wants an answer. She's expecting it. I think about choosing my words carefully, but decide to just blurt out whatever thoughts and emotions cross my mind.

As the cliched old tale comes to a close, she doesn't move. She barely does anything beyond blinking her eyes and keeping her breaths in time. I anxiously wait for a response, any response whatsoever but none comes. She's as lost as I am. This feels like an I-told-you-so kind of moment and I would take some satisfaction in it if I didn't so badly want her to have an answer of some sort. I knew that she didn't and now her mind must be going through the same hoops that mine has been for so long.

"So what did you do?" she finally says when we come to a red light.

"I called child protective services. They'll send someone down Monday."

"Well then, there's nothing else you can do."

"Thank you for that little nugget of advice! I had no idea," I snap.

Lucy seems taken aback, and looks at me like an apology is supposed to fill the air. I'd gladly oblige if I truly felt sorry. I don't feel much of anything right now. A gentle rain begins to pat on the window of the car. I close my eyes and the world around me becomes nothing but the rain.

The dinner goes nowhere. Very few words are spoken between us. Most of the food lay untouched. Wine does dull the awkwardness a little. After an hour of staring at our food we agree to call it a night and just go home.

The car ride home manages to be more painfully silent than the dinner now that there is no conversation between old friends and relatives in the background or the tines of forks scraping the last morsels off of plates. Not even the sprinkling rain reduces the silence. At the very least it gives me something to watch as most of the roads seem abandoned this time of night.

I arrive home and leave Lucy to her own endeavors. Once inside my house I hear her drive off. I'm still not sorry for snapping, for being vague, for trying to taper the harsh brutality of the situation I find myself in but I do wish that it would have gone differently. I know it's a pipe dream and a faint glimmer of hope that she would have the magic answer to make all of the pain go away. Perhaps it's just youthful affection, or perhaps it's just youthful stupidity.

I lay down on the couch and stare at the ceiling in my darkened house. I may as well be asleep. Either way my mind runs wild with fantasies throwing logic to the wind just to give me waking nightmares and other restless dreams.

The next morning the soft sprinkle had turned into a raging downpour. I think about going for another walk anyway, despite—or perhaps because of—the chance that it may make my body sicker than my demeanor. Anything for a change in tone. I do manage to think better of it and try to distract myself with mere totems of enjoyment. The hours swim and then sink in a grizzly haze. Each is more persistent than the last and the attempts at amusement grow less and less effective. I can only play so many games of checkers with myself before I have to do something else.

Familiar harshness rides atop the sounds of drizzle. They're back to arguing once again and this time I have no escape besides shutting my window. As I approach the sill, a mood of difference invades the trite old story. This argument is one-sided. No wait, it's not an argument. I open my ears and actually let the fierceness into my mind for once.

"So, your mother's meals are too good for you, you little fucker?" I hear and a splash echoes the distilled hatred.

I look. Goddammit I look. I knew what I was about to see. I knew that I would never be able to forget about it. I knew all that I had to know. So why did I look? I see that girl face-down in a puddle of mud. Her father stands over her. I can only see one of his eyes from this angle, but it's all I need to truly be horrified. I don't see anger. I don't see sanguine malevolence. I see disaffection.

"Well why don't you just eat mud. Go on Cassie, eat it. Or are you too good for that too?"

"Please Daddy, I'm sorry," the little girl says, trying to pull herself out of the mud. The man puts his hand on her back and pushes her back down into the mud.

"If you're so damn sorry then you'll eat it. We're not going back inside until you eat it."

For the first time I am sick enough to look away. For the first time I am able to shut the world off completely. I no longer hear anything, not even the tapping of rain on the window. I no longer see anything, not even my cold dark living room. My mind is blank. My body is numb. If I could still hope I would hope for a million things to just end it all. As it stands I can't do much of anything right now.

Chapter 4:

called in sick to work today. I told them that I was sicker than I had ever been in my entire life. It may have been a burning lie, or it may have been of the darkest shades of truth. I truly feel sick—to my stomach, to my mind, to the world around me. I have stared into space all day, nearly catatonic. My mind muses over every facet of the situation.

I now know the name of the martyr: Cassie, and I have learned it in one of the worst possible ways. She is no longer just that poor red-headed little girl. She is Cassie, a human being with both a face and now a name. The words and actions her father used echo behind my eyes. I keep seeing it. I see it when I shut them closed. I see it when I flutter them open.

I hear a car pass by and my ears perk up, as they do every time. Instead of passing by as usual, I hear the car stop. I'm filled with exhilaration as I get up and walk to the window. I still am very weary of the last thing I saw out there. But for once I feel a bright shining star above me as I see a red car parked next to the curb in front of my neighbor's house.

Time has frozen. It must have. For a grueling period nothing happens. No one exits the car. No one goes to question why the car is there. No birds chirp. I don't breathe. The hands of the clock behind me do not click. The stillness of it all is enough to drive a man to tears. I feel like someone has grasped pliers around one of my teeth and is trying to jar it loose frantically. Every second that manages to pass by causes another surge of pain to run through me. It's torture to say the least.

Finally, a man emerges from the car. He marches forward towards the house so incredibly slowly. I feel like pounding on the glass, urging him to move faster. Instead I grit my teeth. I watch. I wait. He walks. The pliers twist and twist. They jostle back and forth in desperation. The holder is panicked; in a hurry. The tooth comes out.

The man knocks on the door. It's a most wonderful sound, marred only by the agony of waiting. He knocks on the door again. He steps back and examines the driveway, and then knocks once more. The pliers come in for another round. I'm tearing up at the pain before the door swings open.

The devil steps onto the porch and shakes the man's hand. He has a suave smile. The bastard doesn't know that the dye has been cast. He doesn't know that the tyranny and terror is about to end. He doesn't know that it's almost over. I want to smirk, but as any battle-hardened soldier knows you don't smile until the final enemy drops down dead. It's almost over, but we're not quite there yet.

The two of them disappear inside the house. The pliers aren't done yet. I try to occupy myself during this brutal time. I pace across the living room. I stare at the clock. It's going too slow. I'm ready to punch the damn thing. Every few second ticks I rush back to the window with reckless abandon. I eventually trip over the coffee table and fall to the floor. I'm letting this get to me, way too much.

It'll all be over soon, I don't need to worry. It's a mantra I tell myself as I sit down. The rain pounds on the window and I keep rambling on to myself. It's like a spell that will cause all the strife and stress to just go away. It'll be all over soon. The man will see what cannot be unseen. He'll fix everything. The world will be restored to normal. I don't need to worry.

I hear something: a door, a car. I walk to the window. Is it over now? The devil still has that smirk on his face. He pats the man on the back and escorts him down the long trail to his car. A mirror cracks. Yes it is over now. The fight is lost; the fortress no longer stands. Hopes have crumbled like bricks falling to dust. Flames of desolation simmer across the battlefield. This warrior is no longer able to fight. He needs to sit down and gaze upon the disaster and destruction that plagues the land. He needs to look to the sky and see the sun shining down. He needs to scream at the top of his lungs in rage, in hatred. He needs to unleash the monster within. I see the car door slam and a smile fade. A burning eye casts my way. An arrow is shot down from on high, piercing me in my raw-torn heart. I stumble backwards, feeling like a fallen casualty.

Utter defeat ties me to the ground. There's a gaping wound in my chest. There must be. I don't feel anything, but the cold of my dead, numb body. Did my imagination betray me? Did it paint a reality that I did not see? Did the facts lie to me? Each actor of the play did their damnedest to convince me of horrors bleak and bold. Was the man a lunatic, blind to the obvious?

I hear screams from behind the veil. They're not real either, are they? A whip lashing out doesn't cause any harm, does it? The sword causes no bloodshed, does it? Wicked tyrants deserve to stand and statues made of grandeur deserve to crumble. These are the lies I must believe to accept this truth. I know what I saw. I will always know what I saw. As I close my eyes the play unfolds once again.

Bright moonshine pulls me from whatever pit I had been plunged into. I lie awake, paralyzed. What's the point in moving? I'm dead now. I can't shake my eyes away from the full silvery moon, and I can't hear anything but knocking. Wait, knocking? The corpse comes back to life and struggles to the window. In the pale moonlight, I see Cassie pounding on the door of my neighbor's house. What the fuck is going on now? I thrust my door open and make my way next door.

"What's going on over here?" I demand.

"Daddy won't let me in!" the little girl says, banging on the door.

Reality finds me once more. I wish I could be happy that I'm not delusional, but I'm not willing to have emotions right now. I ask Cassie to move out of the way and I barrage the door. I'm intent on breaking the damn thing if it doesn't open. The door does open and I stand face-to-face with the devil himself.

"Hello, Mister—" I begin.

"Galvin," he responds.

"Mr. Galvin, why is your daughter out here banging on your door?"

He steps out of his house and looks down at me. His eyes still seem glazed from emotion, even this close. My face is in a perpetual sneer and he seems to take notice. He widens his gaze at me and puts his filthy fist across my mouth.

"Cassie get inside. I've got to take out the garbage," he says.

Cassie sniffles and crawls in the house. I struggle to break away, but the man's grip is way too tight. He begins to drag me. I throw my hands about, hitting whatever I can. A fist flies into my gut and the wind leaves. He carries me to the back of the house before dropping me. I don't move. I can't move. The only thing on my mind is the pain. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a set of keys. He sorts through them before grasping a small bronze one. He uses it to open his shed and pulls me into the darkness within.

"So, you think you know how to raise my child better than I do?" he asked. I hear metal scraping across a concrete floor. "I don't know who you are, but you will stay out of my business if you know what's good for you."

Something hard and blunt strikes my shoulder. I gasp out in pain. I grab it to try and soothe it. I would be rolling in agony if he didn't have his hard boot on my chest. Another strike. This time it's my knee. I hear a pop. I won't be walking out of here. Then I hear a deafening clang. It's right by my ear. He missed.

"You just might want to forget this whole little ordeal. You're sore, you've had a long day. Go home, get some rest. You're not going to get a second warning, do you understand?"
I grunt. He stomps on my stomach and throws the door open. He walks out, letting something slide out of his hand. I see the head of a sledgehammer fall to the ground in the dim visibility of the street lights. The stick clatters before coming to rest after it. I suppose in some realm of thought it's nice to know what he tried to murder me with. I'm not standing anytime soon. I can at least sit though. Fury and fear have been neighbors in my mind for quite some time, but now they are indistinguishable.

I grab the sledgehammer, and pull it close to me. I grit my teeth as I climb it to get back to my feet. My knee shouts in pain. If it's not broken, it's somewhere close. My shoulder isn't too far off either. The sledgehammer isn't the perfect crutch, but it's enough to get me out of the shed and out of enemy territory.

I look to the streets. It's all electric buzz and deadened dark windows. Yeah I get it now. We deal with our own problems and our own sociopaths. Every step I take closer to my house forces my knee to break into more shards. I'm crawling by the time I get to the door. I look back to the neighborhood street. My plight is invisible as well. The world is dead to me.

 

[The Jumping Dwarf]

His fanbase is brimming with underage kids (Daan, Stancakes, etc.)

And even if it weren't, he still bashes adult cartoons such as Family Guy for including "character abuse", which still makes him a hypocrite.

 

[Konstantinos]

As detestable and insipid as Enter's writing is, I can't help but appreciate the fact that its not absolutely riddled with errors like with Chris and Jace's writing. Its bad but at least its inscribed legibly.

 

[Steamboat_Bill]

@Konstantinos: That's like complaining that a shit sandwich at least isn't dog shit.

 

[Reverend_Lovejoy]

@Konstantinos: That's like complaining that a shit sandwich at least isn't dog shit.

It's not like that at all. It's more like claiming that Enter's writing is like a week old hamburger that's been left on the kitchen counter. It may make you sick, but at least it's edible. Unlike other hamburgers which are literally made of crap.

 

[Mauvman Shuffleboard]

It's not like that at all. It's more like claiming that Enter's writing is like a week old hamburger that's been left on the kitchen counter. It may make you sick, but at least it's edible. Unlike other hamburgers which are literally made of crap.

Chris's and Jace's writings can just as accurately be described by their signature food items. Chris's salty Fanta is largely about him, poorly masked by something sweet that offers insignificant nutrional benefit and in the end just leaves you wondering why he thought it was a good idea to make it to begin with. Jace's gamer cocktail (consisting of potato chips, doritos, Mtn Dew, Monster Energy Drink, and some red Powerade too I think) is a schizophrenic clusterfuck of associated things combined incorrectly.

I'm not sure what Mr. Enter's food of choice is, but to carry the theme it would be something along the lines of a warm flavorless mush that nominally accomplishes the purpose of food while lacking any distinctiveness to make consuming it enjoyable or memorable.

 

[Piga Dgrifm]

Chapter Five

Healing is a slow, arduous process. I spent days that grew into weeks laying on the couch, just gritting my teeth. The leg and shoulder drift between icy frozen and a blazing inferno. I would rather have them amputated than face the disillusionment that has nested inside my mind. The sledgehammer didn't only break my body; it broke something far more personal.

I didn't call the police, nor do I plan to. Fear does continue to consume me, but it's still not for my sake. He could smash my skull in for all I care. Cassie still holds my concern. I'm not an idiot. He used her to bait me over there. She's just a pawn to him. She'll be a pawn again. I don't know how thicker blood is than water, but I do know it's not thick enough to stop his unrelenting cruelty.

Between the strains of pain I am able to think of my next move. If he thinks he's won this he's sadly mistaken. The more I get bashed in the more I know that I have to do this. Congratulations Mr. Galvin, you've got me involved. I'm done waiting. I'm done holding back. But what could I possibly do? Call for help again? One thing I know for certain is that I'm on my own. I'm done asking the world for help. Goddammit my knee.

The fact that I'm indisposed hurts more than the breaks themselves. The doctor said that my shoulder didn't suffer any fractures so it would heal fairly quickly, lucky me. It still hurts though, but at least it doesn't remind me that I can barely walk. Fortunately I'm still able to drive and I'm still able to work. The crutches definitely made my excuse of illness more believable.

The trees are set ablaze long before I am fully healed. The leaves of red and yellow give me something to look at besides the copy-paste sitcoms and game shows. Other things remain on my mind. I haven't seen Cassie ever since I was attacked and my mind is dead-set on worrying. At least she isn't being locked out again, I joke to myself. It doesn't make me laugh. Not in the slightest

I feel like every door has closed one by one. Every bridge I've tried to cross has been taken out in explosive fires. I talked to Lucy endlessly about this; she still doesn't have the answer. She's the only one who knows how far my plight extends, but her hands are just as bound as mine. At least I convinced her not to call the authorities. If another keeper of the peace fails at noticing the world around him either Cassie is dead or I am.

I must be backed into a corner, because my mind considers options that no sane person ever would. Fantasies of mutilation run wild in its darkest corners. I'm sad to say that I'm finally willing to entertain these thoughts which wouldn't be out of place in a gory horror movie. I must say Mr. Galvin, all of the bitches and bastards in my past have never pushed me this far.

Perhaps the only thing keeping his life on a thread are the broken bits of bone in my leg. It allows my mind to wander to the old adage: two wrongs don't make a right. I don't ask myself what killing Mr. Galvin would bring. I know what it would bring. I ask myself if there's a better way to fix everything, a way with less bloodshed.

Then I realize that I don't give a damn about Mr. Galvin. I'm concerned for Cassie, and only for Cassie. Mr. Galvin is only the door that bolts the safe. He's just an obstacle, an unimportant obstacle. At this point, Cassie's life is worth more than mine. Then I get it. I need to get her out of there. I need to crack the safe. If the authorities won't do it, I'll do it myself.

Am I nuts? Did I honestly consider kidnapping a child? There's being righteously furious, and then there's pure insanity. I have a life. Do I want to give that all up to help a name and a face? The word yes resounds almost instantly. My life isn't much, is it? I begin to entertain this twine of insanity. If I decide to do this what would I leave behind? An empty chair in an office cubicle. A dime-a-dozen girlfriend? A two-story house in a battle zone? Friends where I don't even know their last names? If someone doesn't intervene, Cassie will be lucky if she can make it to a life worth considering.

Yes, I am nuts. I did honestly consider kidnapping a child. And I think that I'm going to go through with it. As soon as my leg heals and my affairs are in order it's over whether the law says so or not.

If my life was important, this would be the part where I asked how would I come out in the end. I already know that answer. My story won't have a happy end no matter where Cassie ends up. They say that a soldier who has nothing to live for is the hardest to bring down. Perhaps this mundane life that I live is finally a blessing. I wish I could say that leaving it behind was the hardest choice I ever had to make. It's not.

You could destroy me completely and the world around me would be largely unchanged. Mr. Galvin could destroy Cassie and the world would have one less chance. One less chance for success, for greatness, for happiness. It's not often such choices are so cut-and-dry. I guess in a way that that is a good thing, but I'm not smiling about it.

The only question that remains is how. How am I going to pull this off? How am I going to get Cassie out of that madhouse right under his nose? I cringe at myself. I'm justified in my own sick mind, but it still feels abysmal to even consider doing something so heinous. It throws a spanner into the workings of my thoughts. The cogs grind slowly as my mind shifts between figuring out how the hell I am going to do this and telling me that I still should do this.

I eventually plan it all out. It's sickeningly easy. There were days my knee hurt too bad to go into work. I spent those days sitting inside, watching the wind blow some of the leaves down. I found out that Cassie walks to school and back. By herself. I want to smile at this fact. I want to cringe at this fact. I want to shaft this fact with contempt. I just accept it. It'll make things easier.

I tell everyone I know that I'm going on a vacation. I guess I can't say that I completely hate gullibility, but it's still not on my good side. Where am I taking this vacation to? Canada, or as close as I can make it. The vacation excuse also gives me a reason to empty out my bank account. I don't need it anymore. I make sure my car is at its optimal condition. I'm not having anything backfire on me. I take a hammer to my cell phone and I rip up every credit card in my wallet. Anything includes my own carelessness.

Every day my knee hurts less and less. Spikes of sanity crop up in the back of my mind from time to time, but I manage to ignore them. Every time I need a reminder I sit on my porch and take in a breath of reality. I look at Cassie's beautiful green eyes, nearly at the verge of tears. I see the way Mr. Galvin holds himself, like he's constantly ready to punch the next thing that breathes.

The day has come. I sit in my car, three blocks away from home. Cassie takes the same route every single day. I hate myself for knowing that, and every other second a tic of what the fuck are you doing!? almost overwhelms me. The answer still hasn't changed. I suppose the only thing left to do is just say it bluntly. I'm kidnapping Cassie.

Cassie walks almost mechanically up the street. I get out of my car and stand by the passenger-side door. Cassie stops a few feet in front of me. She doesn't say anything. Neither do I. We just sort of stand there, looking at each other. When my mind finally shuts up about the consequences I'm able to get in a word edgewise.

"Hi Cassie. My name is Mr. Wright."

"My... father told me not to talk to strangers," she says. I get down on my knees and look directly in her eyes.

"It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you. I know what you've been going through. I want to take you away from all of that," I say, my voice shrinking with every single word.

Once again, we're in dead silence just staring at each other. Then it clicks. She's actually considering it. She's actually thinking about listening to me, you sick despicable human-being. I manage to open my passenger-side door in between the ongoing war inside my head. Cassie continues to stand there. I want to shout for her to just make up her damn mind as my conscience drags me further and further into the quagmire of morality.

Then she does it. She gets into the car. I close the door behind her and walk to my side of the car. I may be a damn robot with the lack of words, emotions, or actions I have. The only thought that crosses my mind is stop. Just that one word, constantly droning on, getting louder and louder. It occasionally comes with the neighbors doing this or go home or give up. The only words that manage to crawl from my mouth are "buckle up."

I drive off. Driving. That is the only thing on my mind. I'm driving. I'm not driving someplace. I'm just driving. In the past few weeks I've had to learn how to turn off my more rational thoughts as they've flared up with fears and sanity. If I bothered to think right now, those kinds of thoughts are the only ones that would make themselves known. I'd like to tell myself that the deed is done, but the deed isn't over by a long shot. The deed has just begun.

Cassie doesn't move; doesn't speak. Her mind is probably doing the same song and dance as mine. Her eyes occasionally climb up to me. I hold mine to the road. There's nothing but me and the road. That is until Cassie starts crying. The raging thoughts die down. I try to speak, but can't find any words. Fortunately Cassie does.

"Are you really going to make all of the bad things go away?" she asks me through tear-filled eyes.

"Yes I am."

Chapter 6

The highway roads stretch open and wide. The wind gushes every time a car passes us or vice-versa. I constantly expect sirens to start wailing in the background. To be honest I can't really say what I'd do in that scenario. I still don't know what I'd do in this scenario. I'm obviously not in my right mind at the moment so all bets are off.

I finally take a look at the gas gauge. Shit. It's almost empty. Stopping is one of the last things I want to do. The only thing that surpasses it is stopping dead in the middle of the high way. Needless to say, this decision is the easiest one I've made in quite some time.

I pull off of the freeway and start looking for a gas station. There's got to be one somewhere. We pass down so many streets, causing the frustration to climb. There's got to be a goddamn gas station somewhere. I'm not in the mood for this crap. I'm practically fuming by the time we get to one.

As I roll in I see cameras. That's just what I need: the whole world to see what the hell I am doing. I exit the car and walk straight to the front door as I have done since I was sixteen years old. I hate being in this situation. You can look like the perfect stranger yet you feel like every action is another faux pas, and the world has their eyes on you. My breaths are probably heavier than usual, but other than that I manage to blend in.

There are no quavers in my voice as I tell the cashier which pump to activate. My hand doesn't shake as I reach into my wallet. I do know my eyes are ricocheting off of every single wall. I thank God that the cashier is as dead to the world around him as I am, at least until he notices that I've been standing there staring at space for the past two minutes.

"Sir, are you okay?" the cashier asks.

"Yeah, I just um... can I buy a candy bar?"

I walk out the store and practically feel the chocolate melting in my hand. I open the car door and toss the chocolate bar Cassie's way, and slam it shut before anyone has the chance to get a glimpse at her. I grab the pump and start filling up the car. And my eyes break off their leash. I start counting every passerby and look at them as if they were planning murder.

The dam breaks and my mind is flooded with fears. A guy stands by the front door of the convenience store, smoking a cigarette. He's staring right at me; right through me. A man and woman argue over a map in the parking lot. I could swear that every so often they shoot a look in my direction. Add that to the faceless on-lookers who notice my hand shaking frantically. I close my eyes and place my free hand on my temple. Sweat, really?

Finally a click. I take a deep breath. If I don't calm down right now, then we aren't going to make it far. I jam the pump back into its socket and get back in the car. The candy bar is still in its wrapper, sitting on Cassie's lap. She's just staring at it. I get in and get going before I decide to speak to her.

"I bought that for you," I say. She stares me. "It's chocolate. You're not allergic or anything, are you?"

"No..." she says and then she starts crying again.

I either focus on her tears or I focus on the repetitious highway. I use the closest tool in my arsenal. I begin asking questions with no purpose. I ask her if she's happy. I ask her if she's sad. I wouldn't know what to do with the answers if I got them, but they'd be nice to have. Her silence shouts out the clearest answer: she doesn't know why she's crying. It's probably been so long since she was allowed to. I don't say anything, just allow her to let it all out.

Cassie has fallen asleep against the hypnotic highway long before the dim twilight has left us. The candy bar is clutched in her hand. If she squeezed it any harder I'm thoroughly convinced that it would explode. I'll have to buy another one if we have the misfortune of needing to stop once more.

I wish Cassie was awake. Before I could focus on something that kept all of this justified. Now it's just me facing morality, alone. She believed me so easily. Why? Am I really that much of a saint, or was Mr. Galvin that much a sinner? To keep the thoughts at bay I turn on the radio. Another regretful choice on my part.

"Police are issuing an AMBER alert for Cassie Galvin. Cassie Galvin, aged 8 was last seen walking home from school on Wilkerson Avenue, shortly after 3 PM this afternoon. She is about 3 ft 7 inches with green eyes and red hair. She was last seen wearing a pink shirt and a Hello Kitty backpack. The primary suspect at this time is a Mister Robert Wright, who as described by Mr. Galvin had a very unusual interest in Cassie..."

I turn off the radio. That was the last thing I wanted to hear. Can't say that I didn't expect it though. An unusual interest? You have a very sick imagination Mr. Galvin. I wish I could blame you for that though. If I was unbiased and I heard that report I'd probably be on a goddamn manhunt by now.

Mr. Galvin, do you want Cassie back or do you just want me to rot in a cell? I'd really like to know. It would make it so much easier than just guessing which circle of hell I'll be able to find you in. In your sick, twisted world do you believe you have some sort of care for Cassie, or is she just your property? That can't be right. That sledgehammer you nearly killed me with was in pristine condition.

I try to figure out what the public probably knows about me. They definitely have a name and face, but do they have a car and a license plate? Mr. Galvin wants me dead and he has wanted me dead ever since I showed an "unusual interest" in Cassie, but how obsessive is he? Is he the kind of guy who just gives angry stares backed by a mountain of muscles, or is he the guy who scavenges through trash cans and breaks into garages to disable brake-lines?

Regardless, now I have the cover of night. I'll have crossed state lines by morning and have to deal with a whole new can of worms. It's still all so surreal. I'm not simply thinking like a criminal. I am committing a crime. Even though I have the best of intentions, I still feel like a filthy animal doing this. Each move makes me dread myself even more. Half of me still wants to turn around, even though it's way too late to do something so desperate.

I trap my consciousness in the present. Right now everything is fine. We're peacefully driving on the highway. My leg has finally stopped hurting. Cassie is safe. We're making progress. We're getting out of here. The car still has plenty of gas. And I'm tired. So very tired.

The last thing I need is to get into a car crash because I fell asleep at the wheel, but I obviously can't stay at a hotel. That would be idiotic. I pull into a rest stop and turn the car off. I sit back and just think. The nagging thoughts of better judgement have stopped. They know that it's way too late to change my course. Now they consider the best way out of this. Canada is nearly a thousand miles away. I won't say that it's impossible for me to get there unscathed, but it's not likely.

I get out of the car and just walk the parking lot. I need to clear my mind. I'm tired, but it'd be easier to sleep in a hurricane. I walk to the amber glow of the vending machines. I insert some money and grab a cola. It's warm and flat and the it's best thing that I've ever tasted. I see a shadow moving about my car. The cola falls to the ground as I run and burst in. Cassie is looking around, dazed and confused.

"Wh—where am I?" Cassie asks.

"You're in my car. Remember? Cassie, I'm here to help you."

"So it wasn't a dream?"

I shake my head. How I wish that it was a dream. Neither of us say anything for quite some time. We don't know what to say, at least I don't. If she's wondering if she made the right choice getting in my car then what could I possibly say to convince her that it was for her benefit? Eventually, she says that she's hungry. I take another trip to the vending machine.

We have a dinner of flat soda and bags of chips. I practically emptied those machines. They won't last us forever, but they'll be able to keep us from stopping provided we don't get sick of junk food.

After Cassie finishes her food she drifts back off to sleep. I take a look at my watch, a birthday present from long ago that comes with all of the bells and whistles: namely one of those temporary lights and an alarm. It's 10 PM now. I set the alarm for 4. I'm not taking any chances on this one. With a full stomach sleep comes a bit easier. It still takes forever though. I said earlier that sleep never fails to settle my mood. Today I've learned that there's a first time for everything.

He has comments closed on these.

 

[EI 903]

As detestable and insipid as Enter's writing is, I can't help but appreciate the fact that its not absolutely riddled with errors like with Chris and Jace's writing. Its bad but at least its inscribed legibly.

Chris's and Jace's writings can just as accurately be described by their signature food items. Chris's salty Fanta is largely about him, poorly masked by something sweet that offers insignificant nutrional benefit and in the end just leaves you wondering why he thought it was a good idea to make it to begin with. Jace's gamer cocktail (consisting of potato chips, doritos, Mtn Dew, Monster Energy Drink, and some red Powerade too I think) is a schizophrenic clusterfuck of associated things combined incorrectly.

I'm not sure what Mr. Enter's food of choice is, but to carry the theme it would be something along the lines of a warm flavorless mush that nominally accomplishes the purpose of food while lacking any distinctiveness to make consuming it enjoyable or memorable.

Also, Jace wasn't real and his writing is intentionally shitty.

 

[MrsFrizzle]

"the highway roads" gives me the sick-to-my-stomach feeling of nausea like I want to vomit.

 

[Ferls]

It confuses me how so many of the comments on the first chapter of Little Cassie are "feeELS!!!!"
The majority of the chapter is about a guy who lives a routine life and is really annoyed at the noise his neighbors make while abusing their kid.