story teller vol. 3: e.scape


boredom. felony. getaway. escaping boredom.

The radicles in my brain. The clicking sound of keys on the board; the maze of spreadsheets, I sit nulled at my desk, another nuisance thrust, and I vaguely smile at my next-door neighbour, Patrice. The enthusiast of the crowd at the office. The lanky smell of recycled air, the buzzing hum of tractors, the engine of the computers. I am instilled in a moment of regret. The clutter of ideas clambers but I have no moment nor freedom to escape the barrage.

“Take his wallet!” Someone screams. An unfamiliar voice and I turn from my keyboard and examine the situation. Everyone’s at her cubicle typing away the next projections, but the noise carries on outside my head into a flash of the break in space. A slit, as if a realm has opened to another universe, beckoning for me to enter. A zombie without a brain, I rise and follow.

The new world of pillow clouds and I am floating peacefully among the blue and bright sun. Everything is shining. Then arms embrace me and cuddle like a mother does her newborn soothing and singing a lullaby.

I wake up drooling all over my hand and mouse. Fuck. I dozed off in the middle of my workday.

That has been happening lately. I guess when you have no purpose or desire, life becomes aimless and jaded. Little did I know, Patrice after all will change my life. As I stepped out of the building for lunch, Patrice’s shout came from nowhere, “Get in!” She flings the car door wide open. “Get in!” She shouts again. So, I do as I am told.

As soon I buckle my seatbelt, Patrice guns it. The road roars with cars as our speed accelerates. I take a hold of my seat and say a little prayer under my breath. Patrice veers a sudden left and shouts, “Ah! Ain’t this thrilling!?” Her maniacal smile leaves me troubled but I’m beginning to get the point. Without asking me, ‘Where to’, she presses on to the unknown destination. At least, unknown to me.

After three hours of constant driving, we reach the end of the country.

“I got no passport,” I mutter but my meek defense does not affect Patrice as she diverts from the board crossing and zooms along the river. We finally stop at the edge of the brush and a background of trees. She eyes the thicket feverishly and with determination.

“This area hasn’t seen patrols in months,” Her smirk’s a demonic offering and she revs the engine. The note of tire smoke spews into the air and Patrice aims for the shrubbery barrier.

I bounce around like the pellets inside a rattle toy. A bump here. A bruise there. But Patrice keeps on gunning towards the finish, shouting and laughing all through the felony. Even the border patrols arriving on guard don’t stop her.  She has lost her mind and so have I.

A warning shot is fired and Patrice continues, until the tires turn bare, until the engine growls and coughs its last breath. Everything turns silent, at least in my head. Someone has turned the volume mute.  My body aches. The border patrols keep yelling and signaling but I’m unable to hear them. Patrice keeps on laughing, the laughter I cannot hear. This goes on for a few minutes until a barrel of a gun is pointing at my head. For once I wish that drooling was my only problem. I lose consciousness the moment my ears hear the last of the sentence, “… arms, arms!”

© Jacob Greb — 2023

return to Story Teller

Original Date: March 13, 2020 Original Source: oneNote

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