He gingerly lifted his shirt to examine the gunshot wound that he knew was bad.
He’d found a disused service station and grabbed a restroom stall. “Fuck off home” was scrawled on the door along with various colourful descriptions of sexual activities.
His cell was dead and the nearest hospital about 40 miles on foot. In his minds’ eye he saw his mother. She was laughing and tipping pancakes onto his plate, his father smiled and the steaming coffee jug scented the air with an aroma so sweet he could almost smell it.
“You maybe a lover but you ain’t no dancer.” She sang as she cooked.
Now Nancy’s voice entered his consciousness. “You never need to prove anything to me darlin.. No macho crap impresses me.” She cupped his face and tears swam in her emerald eyes.
Then most heartbreaking of all a wet nose nuzzling his hand. His trusty German shepherd Benson.
“I’ll take you out in a bit Ben..” He muttered deliriously.
He could hear music coming from the parking lot. The Eagles “Take it Easy.” He hated the fucking Eagles and their homogenised fake country vibe. Suddenly he was filled with a fury so great that it overwhelmed his pain. He wasn’t going to die in a toilet cubicle listening to the smug tones of some plastic cowboys.
He pushed himself up from his slump and pressed his side as hard as possible. He walked into the bright outside, the pain almost making him faint, but he was determined. Staggering he dragged himself to a payphone.
Dialling the only number he knew he waited for the only chance he had to pick up.
Copyright John de Gruyther 2017