It’s not that I don’t try to get away, it’s just that I don’t succeed.
His giant fist grabs my holster belt. I remember the terror of his inexorable strength. He picks me up by my waist, snatches the gun, and tosses me into the cab in one smooth motion.
There are no words. Not from him. Not from me.
This isn’t cute for him anymore. This is business now. This is death.
The gun is against my temple as he puts the truck into drive. Even though he has to reach across with his left hand to the gear shift, the movement doesn’t look awkward. It looks deadly in its controlled power.
He steps on the gas, and we move off into the night. Wolfman doesn’t want to shoot me inside his truck. Too messy. He wants to take me to the nearest side road and kill me there, in the woods. This is going to happen. I am going to die.
I am going to die.
These words rest inside my head in a new way. It’s not like the whispering, insidious voice that said Maybe you’re meant to die out here. This is different. This is real. It is not weakness and pain and self-pity. It is clarity and awareness and strength.
I am going to die. This is going to happen.
And it’s okay.
I don’t want to die, and I will not submit without a fight. But I am not afraid to die either. Because it’s okay. It’s okay. My life has been filled with countless mistakes, but also success. I have been a coward at some points, but brave at others. I have loved and been loved; I have failed to love and to accept love. Above all else I have tried my best, every step of the way. I tried to be good and did those things I thought were good to do. I fought hard to live a life worthy of the gift God gave me. What more could I have done? I could have done no more with what I had at the time.
I let go of the idea that the past could have been any different than it was.
If I should live, and I will do everything in my power to make that happen, my life will never be the same, and I will be better for it. But I am going to die. And that’s okay. I have faith I will go to a better place.
All of this runs through my mind in less than a second. I have a plan, a way to fight before I go, but before I can put it into effect, something happens.
A cop drives by.
Both Wolfman and I see it. Having just put his truck in gear, he’s driving at a suspiciously slow pace. That cop is no coincidence. The SUV did come through for me. The SUV called 911. That cop is looking for me. I’m certain of it, because my gut tells me so.
The wheels turn behind Wolfman’s orange eyes. He’s checking the rearview mirror more than he’s looking at the road ahead of him. My plan is put on hold, waiting to see if the cop flips a U-turn and appears behind us. Wolfman watches the mirror, I watch -Wolfman, and both of us wait to see what fate has in store.
The cop doesn’t show.
Wolfman lets go of a long breath. That’s my cue.
“I know you’re going to kill me.”
He says nothing, doesn’t even look at me.
“I am going to die unpurified. Unrepentant. And without fear. Look at me.”
He doesn’t look.
“Look at me. Look me in the eyes.”
Wolfman turns to see me, strangely obedient. Except it’s not so strange. I can feel my own power. In a way it doesn’t surprise me that he does what I tell him to do.
“I’m not scared of you. I’m not scared of death. You may kill me, but you’re not going to beat me.”
His eyes are as empty as ever, still far emptier than an animal’s eyes, but it doesn’t take heart or soul to realize I’m right. -Wolfman realizes I am right. I can see it in him. I can see the hate, the powerful, overwhelming hate. The devil himself could not look at me with more hate. I would be scared out of my wits, but there’s nothing to be scared of now. I already know what’s going to happen.
And that’s when I bite his hand.
My arms are no good, but my jaw works. His hand becomes a fist that smashes my head into the seat, the window, the door. But I’m a pit bull that won’t let go. Blood fills my mouth. Flesh tears in my teeth. My job is to fight as hard as I can, for as long as I can.
I hang on for a few seconds more. Wolfman rips his hand free, aims the gun at my face, and pulls the trigger.
Nothing happens.
The gun misfired. Whether it’s two days in the grit and wet of the river or providence, I don’t know, but it makes me fight even harder. Using teeth and nails I try to force the gun out of his fist. Wolfman needs both hands to clear the bullet from the chamber. He’s strong enough to drag me over to the driver’s side. My ribs hit the steering wheel, and I get a new idea.
Crash the truck.