Rest Along the Way

Vincent’s cold breath condensates in front of him while he sprints through the barren, winter woods. Hop! Over a dead log. Duck! Under a tangle of branches. Fox! He races past, barely stirring the animal. Where he was speeding off to? He’d like to think to nowhere, just for the hell of it. To feel “free”, or whatever that means nowadays.

Over and under, Vincent weaves through the woods, only a once-white tee shirt under a tattered winter jacket clings to his back and chest, and a pair of well-loved carpenter pants with a hole in the left knee on his legs. He keeps running, the thrill of freedom and the sharp, cold air rushing into his lungs. The bright, full moon light illuminating his path.

Vincent begins to slow as a warm glow starts to brush through the woods, hazed by fog. As he calms his pace, he starts to notice dull Christmas lights strung up in the bare tree limbs, some of the bulbs barely flickering, and whole sections completely dead. He follows the tangle of lights to a cabin in the woods, the moon almost centered in the hazy night sky. He takes his time peeking around the cabin, peering into frosted up windows and checking for signs of life in the cabin.

Once he determines that it may be a safe place to warm up, he wraps around to what could be a front porch. Vincent deliberately climbs the creaking steps, before feeling a sharp pain in his foot. As he lifts his foot, a large carpentry nail sloughs out of his heel, painted in a fine layer of blood. Without making a sound, he examines his shoe, a small blood stain appearing on the off-white canvas and rubber sole. Testing his foot, he puts weight on it and climbs the last step before knocking on the door quietly, a barely audible thump thump rapping on the worn wood.

A few moments of silence pass before Vincent tries the doorknob. To his surprise, the door is unlocked, and creaks open. Stepping into the cabin, Vincent starts to notice an uncanny sight.

The cabin is completely lit and the radiator is still on, though no one seems to be home. A small, four foot Christmas tree is displayed in the corner of what is barely a living room. The top half of the tree are the only lights that are lit, although a string of lights looks to wrap around the entirety of the tree.

Looking to his left, a small, dated dining setup occupies the open floor. Vincent trots to the stove, where a full dinner is completed, although cold and partially molding, left out for god knows how long. A quartz clock barely glints above the stove, the time reading 12:17, or somewhere around there. The second hand stays quivering at thirty-six seconds.

A low rumble grows in Vincent’s stomach, realizing for the first time in two days how hungry he was. He scratches his head before opening some cabinets above the counter.

”I guess I’m a little late,” Vincent chuckles sarcastically about the situation. The moldy ham dinner, and the new discovery of empty kitchen cabinets.

The pain in his foot pangs again, a rude reminder of stepping on the nail earlier. He starts back toward the living room, and past the dusty, leather recliner is a hallway that leads toward a bathroom. He checks the mirror, remembering his parents’ medicine cabinet filled top to bottom with pill bottles and syringes. He pulls open the mirror, finding a few bottles with antibiotics and extra strength Tylenol, but also rubbing alcohol and some gauze, all with a thin film of dust covering them. He grabs the alcohol and gauze, and the bottle of doxy-something, the paper label showing its wear.

He sits on the floor, unwilling to sit on the toilet even with the lid down. He splays his tools in front of him, and takes his shoe and sock off. A small puncture hole appears on the bottom of his heel, maybe not even half an inch deep by his best estimate. Vincent plucks a wad of toilet paper off of the holder and soaks it in rubbing alcohol, then takes his time cleaning the wound and the whole bottom of his foot.

“I’m not putting you looking like that on my foot!” He muses at the dusty gauze. Without letting his bad foot touch the ground, he stands and supports himself on the sink by his elbows. Vincent rinses the gauze and wrings out as much water and he can, before plopping back down on the floor to wrap his foot.

Carefully sliding his foot back in his sock, then his dirty shoe, he pops back up and tests his foot by patting it on the hard linoleum, proud of his handywork. He reaches down to pick up the medicine bottle, dry swallowing a pill of the doxy thing, and pocketing the rest for later.

Vincent travels back into the kitchen in a last ditch attempt to find something to eat. Rummaging through cabinets, the pantry, and possibly the half full trash can, he finds a lone granola bar behind the aged toaster.

He snatches it up by the thin foil of the corner.

“Gotcha!”

He unwraps the top third of the granola bar and takes a bite, chewing slowly and savoring it. Definitely stale, but he’s not complaining. He plans to taste freedom a bit longer, even if freedom right now tastes like an expired granola bar.

Vincent wraps the empty third of the foil over the exposed bar before pocketing it for later, careful to make sure no lint or strings from his pocket find their way to the exposed oats. He takes a second to enjoy the heat from the radiator on his still icy hands, clasping and rubbing them together to thaw them out. Once satisfied, he heads toward the door, and back out into the frozen woods, ready to run free again.