Hanna

By now I hate driving. No matter the beautiful fields or the bright cloudless sky. I absolutely hate it. Michael’s driving, his one hand on the wheel and other on his shot leg. For some reason my stomach coils with the pity for the man. How twisted do you have to be to believe people deserve death because of their desires? Yet the second they don’t desire anything, the second they’re suicidal, as I understand it, the criteria doesn’t apply. But the problem he struggles with seems to be the torment of someone who’s suicidal, or any torment really. Over my feverish days in the motel he went out of his way to care for me, at least more than I ever imagined a murderer would, or could. From bringing me food to actually forcing me to take that damn shower. Even after he untied me last night (thankfully, I didn’t have any panic attacks) I caught him glancing at me like a mother would at a crucified child— filled with anguish, guilt, and remorse. That’s why he can’t kill me. That’s why he acts like he’s about to be torn apart. It drives him crazy, resulting in violence against me or himself. But the question I want an answer to is why and how come?

“Could I call Shia?” I ask.

“No.”

“Please, I have to know if he’s okay. And say my goodbyes just in case. It’s not gonna change anything. I’m worried for him. If he’s not captured already, I could warn him. And if he is, I’ll end the call.” Michael tightens his jaw, undecided. “On the payphone, please.”

“Fine. Next refill.”

I pray my brother is all right, and fear he’s captured like me, tortured somewhere in an abandoned building. Except if he is, I doubt he’s as lucky with his kidnappers as I am with mine—

I blink with a sudden shift of perspective and pucker my lips to the side. I am indeed lucky. I’ve been dragged across the country, shot at, and beaten. But I’ve also been fed, cared for while I was sick, had all the necessities provided for me and my virginity preserved even after I pushed myself on him.

I shake my head, banishing this type of reasoning from my mind. This is what they call Stockholm syndrome. And it is wrong.

I clutch on my seatbelt and focus on the roadside, smearing into a line of dirty brown.

He, with his stupid beliefs, killed my sister. He kidnapped me and put me through hell. He’s a mass murderer, a psychopath. The moment he steps over that border I’ll make sure every damn Fed in the country is after him.

…

I’m kicking sand while leaned against the payphone. “Pick up, pick up, come on, bro.” I clutch the phone with my gloved hands. Michael’s bought me gloves and makes me wear them to avoid leaving fingerprints everywhere.

“Hello?” A voice replies and I cover my mouth so not to burst into tears.

“S-Shia?” I don’t even know how long it’s been. Two mere weeks? Feels like ages.

He chokes on what I think is his usual midday coffee and a chair scrapes against the floor as he jumps to his feet. “Where are you, Hanna?”

“It doesn’t matter. Are you safe?”

“Where are you?” I hear a rustle of papers as he probably searches for another cellphone to call the police on his overcrowded desk.

I press the phone to my ear. “Shia, Shia listen to me, please. Please!” He stops rustling, his panicky breaths echoing over the line. “Are you okay? Is anyone after you?”

“No, Hanna, I’m safe. Where are you?”

“What about the gang?” I utter.

“The feds busted them, the whole organization Michael worked for. Granted there weren’t many of them, but we’re safe now. It was all over the news. Hanna, are y—”

“What about Michael?” My voice overpowers his.

“He’s clean but for a few thefts over seven years ago. They blamed his murders on one of the men from the ring.”

What? With disbelief I glance at Michael by my side, then compose myself. “Were all of them caught?”

“I’m not sure. Feds say all of them.”

“Good.” At least there’s that.

“Hanna, are you with him? Are you okay?”

“Yes and yes.”

“Are you—”

Michael pulls the switch hook before I can stop him, cutting the call. I hold my phone to my ear, clutching it as if it were my brother’s hand. His voice still rings in my ear, a connection over hundreds of miles.

Slowly I hook the phone into place. Michael’s not wanted by the feds. How am I going to get my justice? Even if caught, he won’t be convicted for all the murders but for one petty kidnapping. And that’s only the best case.

When we’re back on the road I prop my head on my fist, trying to think clearly over all that has happened, examine my feelings and pick a single one I should follow. Justice over pity, I tell myself. It feels so wrong.

“What did he say?” Michael asks.

“Your gang was busted.”

He gulps as if it’s a bad thing. “All of them?”

“From what was on the news.”

“What of me?”

“Not wanted.” I press my lips into a tight line until the wetness in my eyes passes. “So not fair.”

“World’s not fair, freckles.”

“If I don’t die, I’ll spill it all,” I murmur. “It’s not if anymore.”

“I know.”

I wait for him to continue, but tense silence settles in between us. He probably doesn’t want any desires to leave my mouth.

I slide open the window. Warm wind hits the inside of the car.

“Close it,” he says.

“Why?”

“You’re still feverish.”

“Oh, look who cares,” I chuckle, dismissive.

“I’m not gonna watch—” I stick my head out and his voice drowns in the gushing wind. My hair drapes around my face and I squint, a smile splitting my lips. His grip on my shoulder pulls me back inside. “I’m not gonna watch you if you get sick again.”

I let out a laugh. “Yes, you will.” I poke my head out again. This time he doesn’t stop me and I thank him for that. I guess we have to get to the border first before I make any decisions. So, for now, I at least can entertain myself.

The plains stretch as far as the eye can see, dissolving into the horizon, burnt orange by the evening sun. The wind bangs against my ears and body, and it takes effort to push the air out of my lungs. Still, the rush of speed overtakes my senses and for a moment I feel like I’m midflight. So light and free.

This is my convertible, this is my horizon, carrying me into life, or death.