Author's Note: Hello, any reader that might be left! I know it's been a while, but I never once left this story; unfortunately, life got in the way. So I'm hoping I still have all my old readers and maybe bring in some new ones!
STAGE THREE – ALTRUISM
Prosocial behaviors a person carries out without considering his or her own safety or interests.
She wasn't afraid this time because this time, she knew it was all over for her. She'd touched another man, kissed another man, and Johnny would not stand for that. What man would? Sitting there in the passenger seat of the Mustang, inebriated boyfriend driving her—maybe the both of them—to their deaths, Caroline smiled. Escapism, she thought, nodding slightly, that's what this is.
"You stupid fucking whore," Johnny spat, enunciating every single word so that she would feel his fury, know his rage. It wasn't hard to figure out, but being Johnny, he had to let the world know he was disgruntled and why exactly he was experiencing this disgruntlement. But still, Caroline felt no fear of him. Fear of any possible pain he might cause her before he killed her? Yes, she felt that a bit, but other than that, she was numb. "Did you even look at that guy?" he went on. "I'm sure you noticed he had no teeth when you had your tongue in his mouth! Are you kidding me, Caroline? Are you fucking kidding me?" He was screaming at the top of his lungs, beads of sweat popping out on his forehead from the effort, and she still did not feel that elusive worm slithering around her heart like she did when she was nervous, or scared, or worried. All she wanted right now was a cigarette.
"I'm going to kill you," Johnny promised, a tiny smile growing across his lips. As if he'd been looking forward to her screwing up, making a mistake, so that he could put an end to their toxicity. He probably had been. He'd probably been investigating and examining everything she did, everywhere she went, to find that perfect excuse to finally X her out of his life for good. But then again, that would suggest he had a conscience if he couldn't kill her without a viable reason, and she didn't—couldn't—wouldn't—believe he had one of those. "Do you know that?" he asked, making himself and his wrath known once more. "Do you know that I'm gonna fucking kill you?"
"I heard you the first time," Caroline softly replied. It felt good to not have to watch what she said anymore. He'd made up his mind concerning her punishment, and she accepted it; no need to bow to his dominance any longer.
He reached across the car and slapped her. It happened so quickly, like the strike of a venomous snake, and she only realized it'd happened after it was all over and she felt the sting on her cheek. She didn't give him the pleasure of seeing her reach up to massage the pain away from her skin, so she sat there, eyes forward, smirk still glued to her lips in spite of the throbbing on her cheek. It would all be over soon, she promised herself. Despite the fact that she could not wait to be done with this life, to fold the ghastly hand she'd been dealt by whatever god existed or did not exist, she longed to give Johnny just a simple taste of his own medicine. Because he'd had such control over her life for so long, she knew she wouldn't be the one to teach him a lesson, but she hoped she would be somewhere in the afterlife with the ability to watch when he got what was most certainly coming to him.
"I thought about just leavin' you out here," Johnny slurred, swerving back into their lane of traffic. Caroline's eyes cut to Johnny, then back to the road. Would they both die in a fiery car accident tonight? She would only accept this outcome if she died right away, and Johnny was left to suffer with missing limbs for at least a few days. "Let you wander around for a couple days and starve to death. Get eaten by some coyotes or somethin'." Laughter gurgled from deep in his throat, and Caroline took the time to glance up at the moon. So big and beautiful, not a cloud in the sky to hide it, and she leaned her head against the window to allow the moon's luminescence to bathe over her. This would be the last time she ever saw the moon and felt its cosmic beauty on her face.
"But I didn't wanna make it that easy for you to hitchhike or somethin'," Johnny continued. Caroline inhaled deeply, irritated that he was ruining the last bit of life she was trying to enjoy. "I got somethin' special lined up for ya, though, sweetheart." He glimpsed her sideways, grinning wildly, frightfully. That little smile conjured up the first piece of fear she'd felt since this whole thing began. "Because I do love you."
"Love me so much you're gonna kill me," Caroline uttered, not really trying to be heard but knowing she would.
"It's a lesson, Carolina," he stressed, and she rolled her eyes. Fuck, she hated it when he called her that. "You fucked up … bad. And now you gotta learn your lesson."
"How am I supposed to learn a lesson if I'll be dead?" she pressed. Why not? She was dead already.
Johnny shrugged. "Not my problem."
Of course it wasn't.
Headlights suddenly appeared directly behind them, high beams momentarily blinding Caroline, as she'd been gazing out the window in the direction of the side mirror, and Johnny let out a litany of curse words, hand flying up to cover his eyes. As soon as the lights appeared, the couple was jolted forward by a hard knock from the bumper of the Mustang, presumably by the vehicle behind them that had materialized out of nowhere. Johnny continued hollering, and Caroline couldn't be sure, as she'd never heard it before, but was that panic in his voice?
"What the fuck?" Johnny clamored, desperately searching the scene behind his vehicle through the rear view mirrors for an explanation as to what was happening to them. Well, to him, more likely, as he couldn't have cared less what befell Caroline after her unforgiving transgression.
Another strike from the invading headlights, and this time Johnny couldn't keep control of the car, consequently swerving into the lane of oncoming traffic. But as they'd both noticed throughout their day of travel, not many people trekked down this road, so there wasn't much to worry about with regard to colliding with a passerby. Unfortunate for Caroline. She'd grabbed onto the door handle at some point, more so to keep herself from bouncing around the car than to save her life, and she glanced lethargically into the mirror on her side. The lights—the headlights were the brightest they were capable of, also there was illumination coming from the roof of the vehicle, which suggested they were being bombarded by some kind of truck—were blaring, creating blue and red blobs in her line of vision as she stared, captivated by the radiance and the fact that she and Johnny were ironically under siege. She wasn't thinking, her brain unable to be bothered by such a complex task; she was more or less along for the ride at this point. Whatever happened happened. Come what may. And then she burst out with laughter when the song with the same title from the movie Moulin Rouge came into her head.
"What the hell are you—?"
But the question couldn't be finished let alone answered. The third onslaught sent the Mustang to the right side of the road, the front tire slamming atop a stray rock that was every bit the size of a doghouse, and the car went airborne, tipping to the left. Caroline maintained her grip on the door, sure it wouldn't be enough to save her life, as she watched the world turn vertical momentarily before flipping upside down as the Ford crashed into the desert on its roof. The car slid for at least a hundred feet before grinding to a stop, its occupants having blacked out from smacking their heads against various objects, and all was still for a few short moments.
Caroline slowly came to before Johnny, her eyes indolently blinking as she awoke. Only … she wasn't necessarily Caroline anymore. As soon as her vision was clear and she was able to see things, she saw them differently, she saw everything differently. Glancing at Johnny, her master's degree capable brain that had been wholly reverted back to its most basic functions saw, not a stranger, but someone who wasn't completely familiar to her, either. Deep inside, however, there was undeniable detestation for the man beside her. He'd done her wrong, so horribly wrong, but her mind had cracked, a substantial chasm left within, and she couldn't recall what exactly he'd done to her. He made her curious, he made her irate, and her brand new eyes began to survey the demolished vehicle for a weapon to use on the unconscious man before she even realized she was doing it. Her brain, this fresh mind, was acting before thinking, not even considering a thought-out plan. She no longer knew the meaning of the word plan. To be fair, she didn't know the meaning of a lot of things anymore.
Rolling her torso toward the driver, she spit blood at him, most of it landing on his face, and she licked her lips, tasting that delicious copper tang. It was so good, better than ice water on a hot summer day, better than a glass of wine after a long day at work. She laughed at his face painted in his blood as well as her own now, taking a moment to really laugh it out, and then she began trying to divulge a plan of extracting herself from the wreckage. Once that was accomplished, she would see about finding something sharp to finish off the man in the driver's seat. Because he'd beat her, she remembered suddenly, he'd beat her to the point of nearly killing her, and he deserved to pay for that. Back to the task at hand, she located the buckle of the seat belt, pressing it in with both thumbs several times in succession before it released the belt. She came crashing to the ceiling of the Mustang, her neck screaming in pain, but any injuries she may have had were not a concern. As she climbed to her hands and knees, she started to crawl out the shattered passenger window, pieces of glasses embedding themselves in her skin, but she hardly noticed, focused solely on getting out of the vehicle and causing as much pain as possible to the man who'd relentlessly kicked her ass for many years.
"Hello, you," she whispered, stopping to admire a large chunk of glass on the desert floor, glinting in the moonlight as if it wanted to be found and used for her mission.
"I knew you'd make it," he gushed, voice deep and out of breath, and yes, she remembered him. The slovenly unkempt man from the bar, the one who'd called her pretty, the one who wouldn't leave her alone, the one who'd followed her into the bathroom, the one she'd kissed and touched and had allowed to kiss and touch her.
Mac.
She glared up at him, slowly standing on shaking, bruised, and cut legs, clutching the jagged piece of glass in her hand. Should she kill him, too? Images of sliding the weapon through his belly, feeling his warm blood gush over her skin jogged across her mind, but then she recalled the kisses and touches in the dingy bathroom. She'd liked that. A smirk danced across her lips, eyes staring up at the filthy man through their lashes, and she suddenly put one and one together: he'd caused the accident that had sent the Mustang flying, rolling, ending on its top. This fact didn't scare her like it normally would have; no, it excited her. He wasn't afraid—not of killing or hurting people, not of being caught, and he certainly wasn't afraid of Johnny. Maybe he'd tried to kill them both, but his lack of fear of anything made her feel safe. Safe?
Safe.
"Did you?" she breathed, finally replying to his remark, clutching the glass in her hand so tightly that she could feel it cutting through her skin. Blood streaked down, dripping off her fingers, but she didn't feel a thing.
"Oh, yeah," he said, taking two steps forward, shoulders dipping with obscene arrogance and want. The heavy air between them was cut in half with this advance, and Caroline found herself struggling to inhale. Maybe it's from the accident.
Accident? What accident? All that had happened to she and Johnny had been intentional, on purpose, so she would have to refer to it as something different—the crash, perhaps. As she thought this through, her eyes never left his, and his never left hers. The battle was raging again between their complex and borderline personalities, both minds becoming bogged down with confusion and that familiar—to Caroline, that is—static as her dark irises and his light ones refused to be the one to look away first.
Just as she was about to lift the glass and plunge it into the main artery in Mac's chest, a voice carried over the hot, dry desert air. "Hey!"
Mac did not turn his head to give the voice his full attention. Caroline, still smirking devilishly—not to be trusted—held him captive with her strange new demeanor. "What?" he asked of the unknown voice.
"He's still alive."
Both Mac and Caroline looked at him this time. He seemed tall, with long hair, bulging muscles, and he could be quite frightening, but Caroline—this new Caroline—was frightened no more.
"So fix it," Mac ordered.
"Wait!" Caroline hollered, holding her hand up, the one with the glass. She noticed the blood then, holding the appendage against the light of the Mustang's headlights, infatuated with the shadows and colors, and just how easily it was to draw blood. She breathed a quick laugh, shaking her hand free of the crimson liquid, and suddenly remembered the task at hand. Looking back at Mac, she said, "Don't kill him."
"So you do like it when that motherfucker beats up on you," Mac decided, shoving her, hard, big hands on her small chest sending her back several steps.
Filled with abrupt rage, Caroline regained the space between them, chest to chest with the man that had wrecked the car she was riding in. No fear. Only a seething ire burning like brimstone within her. "I don't want him alive, asshole," she gritted. Mac made no reply. "I ..." She trailed off, a bit unsure of where she was going with this. There seemed to still be a bit of residual compassion lingering around her insides, wrapping around her heart, clenching and freezing the vital organ.
"Fuck this!" Mac burst, throwing his hands up, turning, and walking away from her. "I ain't got time—"
Unable to control her fury any longer, Caroline heaved the piece of glass at him, hitting him squarely in the back of the head. His shoulders bunched as he reached back to cradle the injured spot on his skull before slowly turning back to her. And then he started to run. Caroline's knees bent, assuming a crouched attack position, though she hadn't a clue how she would take this man who was so clearly much bigger than her, stronger than her, but goddamn it, she was not backing down any longer. She'd spent too much time being inferior and afraid; her time had at long last come. But the impact never came. Mac stopped only a few inches before tackling her, seemingly inspecting her, those dazzling eyes now made more brilliant by the moon above glanced over her, leaving no stone unturned.
"You're different," he commented, lips barely moving. It was as if he was attempting conversation with her, but his voice was too hard, words coming out harsh and eliminating the possibility of a rapport. "No fear."
Caroline's brow rose at the realization that it was the easiest thing in the world for him to read her. Just a look at her, and he knew what was happening in her head, or lack thereof. It had taken her longer to discern the change inside her own mind, and even so, he seemed to understand it, whereas she was utterly confused by it. She remembered what had happened before the crash, everything she'd taken from Johnny, all the beatings and abuse, and she remembered how she hadn't been able to fight him, fight for herself because of the unrelenting fear. But after the crash, when she should have been terrified about Johnny blaming everything on her and finally dealing her what he believed she deserved, she just … wasn't. Maybe something had shifted in her brain, maybe something had broken, but she was different. And Mac knew it. Johnny, on the other hand, did not.
"Don't kill him," she said softly, endearing, eyes sliding from his face to his shoulders, chest, belt buckle, and then they shot up to meet his once more. He was indignant, scoffing at her request by crossing his arms over his chest. Her jaw set tight, determination overcoming her previous indifference to the situation at hand. She took note of her ability to go from one emotion to the next without so much as a transition and she smiled at this new skill. This new strength. "Because I want to."
Mac's chin rose, acknowledgment evident, and a small, nearly inconspicuous smile split his thin lips. He pointed at the meaty man still standing beside the Mustang, the one who'd announced Johnny's unfortunate––for him––status and ordered him to remove the injured man from the mangled mess and haul him into the truck. He would send someone back for the wreckage later, he said, as he grabbed her arm and tugged her toward their vehicle, both of them falling in step behind the big guy dragging Caroline's bloodied boyfriend in the same direction. He was slowly coming to, the abuser, as his eyes fluttered, head lolling back and forth, and Caroline's brow arched superiorly and the smile that crossed her mouth was contemptuous. He was now, and would be until she decided to end it, in her shoes, experiencing the fear she'd permanently lived in while with him, and she would revel in this as long as she could. Johnny would live as long as she would allow him to.
Suddenly, Caroline noted the fact that she was skipping. Skipping across the desert, disfigured Ford in the background that was currently smoking, two disheveled, dangerous men––if the intentional accident was anything to go on––carrying the blood-soaked offender to his final resting place. What a sight they were, she mused, laughing out loud, ignoring the looks she gained from Mac and his comrade.
Johnny was tossed into the bed of the truck, too beaten and broken to attempt an escape, and Mac roughly shoved Caroline into the middle of the front seat, squished between the robust driver and broad-shouldered Mac. She had no choice but to spread her legs for the gear shift, and as Long Hair reached for the mechanism, he deliberately grazed her bare, sweaty thigh, and Caroline––new Caroline––flew into a rage. She jumped up onto her knees and threw punch after punch after punch at the transgressor, screaming all the while, calling him every name she'd ever wanted to call Johnny, hitting him with as much force and on the same places as she'd wanted to hit Johnny. No man was going to touch her like that anymore, not unless she wanted them to. Not anymore.
"Whoa, hey!" Mac hollered, long, strong arms enveloping her, hauling her off his friend easily. She fell back into his lap, stealing the opportunity to kick the molester for good measure, caring not for the consequences, should there be any. "Fucking stop it!" he commanded.
"He doesn't get to touch me!" Caroline shouted, pointing accusingly at the driver.
Mac seized her chin, squeezing as hard as he could to gain her full attention, forcing her to look at him. He pressed their foreheads together, his vivid eyes terrifying, two reminders of just how not in control she still was. She didn't know this man from Adam, but ignoring the freedom he offered, the very freedom he lived by, was unimaginable. So she couldn't beat the hell out of his friend, that was fine, as long as she could take care of the trash in the bed of the truck. Slowly she softened, falling limp in his arms, the redistributed weight crushing her nose against his, her mouth meeting his, and it was then that he claimed her for only the second time that evening. His mouth was so rough and hungry, devouring her lips and tongue and every moan that escaped her throat, maintaining the grip he had on her jaw. But as quick as it had started, it was over, and he was pushing her away, though still holding her near him, or away from Long Hair. They took off, dust, dirt, and gravel flying in their wake, and the broken man in the back rolled around helplessly, banging into the sides, screeching and cursing.
Caroline didn't know where they were going and she didn't care. That independence she'd recently inherited was thrilling, and she'd flicked on the radio, turning the volume up at some unknown pop tune, dancing idiotically despite the confined space. Mac smiled fondly at her, lighting up a cigarette, arm hanging out the opened window beside him. When she noticed what he was doing, she begged for a cigarette of her own, sounding much like a spoiled teenager asking for daddy's credit card. Every vice she wasn't allowed while with Johnny, she now would indulge in to her heart's desire. Her smile morphed into a full on grin when he relented, pulling another cigarette from the pack, lighting it for her, and then placing it between her inviting lips. Avidly, Mac watched her suck on the tobacco, cheeks hollowing out, lips full and wrapped around the filter, long fingers separated and waiting for the hit to be complete. She watched him as he watched her, both sets of eyes locked in a raging war of dominance, though Caroline was fairly certain she would not win. To put it simply, she enjoyed being allowed to play.
The desert was utterly black, the moon slowly losing its glow behind thunderous clouds, but there was no sense of urgency. Caroline speculated over how often Mac and his cronies did something like this; plucking people from their travels amongst the burning mountains of Utah, doing with them what they pleased, disposing of them, none of whom would ever be heard from again. This theory lit a long since burned out flame within Caroline, as she had no idea how dangerous these men could be, what they were capable of, and whether or not they would turn their attentions to her, making her one of the missing. Ultimately, however, none of this mattered. The new Caroline loved the precariousness, treasured the unknown, but mostly … she craved the man named Mac.
The trio smoked in silence. Johnny's moans were becoming louder by the minute, and no one seemed too concerned with being covert. Why should they? This was as middle-of-nowhere as one could get. It began to rain. Softly, at first, just a sprinkling, but it quickly turned into a downpour, and Caroline turned completely around in her seat, kicking the dashboard as she went, and she folded her arms on the head rest, chin resting there, and watched delightedly as Johnny writhed and sobbed, trying in vain to shield his face from the rain. Caroline smiled. Caroline was happy. She took one last drag from the cigarette between her fingers before sliding the back window open and flicking the burning object at her ex-boyfriend.
"Caroline!" Johnny screamed, hysterically shoving the wasted cigarette away from him as if he would catch on fire if it touched him. Caroline couldn't help the giggle that escaped her lips and she hid the bottom half of her face behind her arms so he wouldn't see. "Get me out of here, you stupid bitch!"
The giddiness was gone instantly, her lips plummeting to an irate scowl, brows arching. "It's over, you know?" she remarked casually, in spite of the deathly expression on her face. "Us. You and me." It was as if the realization of their separation had come crashing down upon her suddenly and she was awestruck by it all.
"Cunt!" Johnny snapped, looking straight into her eyes while clutching at the various wounds all over his body. "Get me out of here!"
Caroline felt the smile split her lips. "We'll get you out," she promised ominously.
The truck slid to a halt outside of what appeared to be a dark cave, but with the rain and the hiding moon, Caroline had no idea where they'd ended up. She followed Mac's order to get out, and the weather gave her pause. The rain was warm, coupled with the earthy scent of wet dust and dirt, sent her spirit flying. Her feet carried her away from the truck and her arms extended straight out to her sides, and then she began to twirl. It didn't take long for her hair to become soaked through, the blonde probably appearing brown, and she pushed it off her face with both hands, eyes closed, the action taking place in slow motion as she enjoyed this cleansing, this sort of baptism into a brave new world.
"Hey," Mac hollered.
Caroline's eyes opened and she saw Mac standing beside the truck. He had Johnny in an unrelenting headlock, the illumination of the truck's headlights painted over one side of his face and the flexed bicep he used to hold his hostage, leaving the other side dark and indiscernible. There was that thirst again for the risk he so clearly presented, for the peril she faced once she inevitably followed them into the haunting cave. Mac had the same yearning in his eyes for her, drinking her in as she stood there drenched, clothes becoming transparent and clinging to every curve, hands on her face, hair a mess. Even if she had the sudden inclination to run, Mac wasn't letting her get away.
"Let's go," he said.
Caroline's breath left her lungs and her arms fell against her hips, pure submission overwhelming her.
"Okay."