The Whole Truth

The sign for Mexico felt like a taunt, 532 miles and a lifetime away. Your eyelids, surprisingly, refused to droop, a testament to the two energy drinks still humming in your veins, or perhaps, the sheer magnitude of the disaster you were leaving in your wake.

A cop car materialized from the darkness, its headlights cutting through the pre-dawn gloom. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. You’d tried to scrub away the evidence – the blood, the discarded bridesmaid dress, the clothes you’d changed into – but your body still screamed panic. You held your breath, willing yourself to be invisible.

It passed. The red taillights receded into the hilly, twisting terrain, vanishing into a dip. Only then did your heart rate begin its slow, agonizing descent.

A hysterical laugh bubbled up, threatening to escape, but you swallowed it down. The last thing you needed was to feel crazier than you already did. This was déjà vu, a familiar, sickening feeling. On the run again. Hours, you told yourself, you had hours before anyone connected the dots, before you’d need to shed this truck and find another.

But then, the dam broke. Your eyes welled up, and a gasp tore from your throat. You were a killer. A cold-blooded killer. The villain you never thought you could be.