The Girl Who Would Be King(2)

Delia has more control over her limbs than I’d like by the time I get in the car with her, but she doesn’t have much more time if she’s going to do anything about anything, so I’m pretty sure it’s all going to work out.

But when we get to the spot I’d picked out, I realize I don’t have time for my full speech. I’d planned to take a moment at the edge of the cliff, a moment to remind myself that I’m doing the right thing, a moment of introspection if you will, followed by a long speech. I’ve seen it in some movies and it always seems pretty cool, but Delia’s too awake and I’m too nervous to have time for anything like introspection. Instead, I immediately head to the other side of the car and start shoving her over toward the driver’s seat. I’m not sure it matters if it looks like she was driving or not since I don’t expect anybody to come looking for her, but I figure it might be a good idea, just in case. I grab a big handful of her robe and push with all my might, shoving her toward the left side of the car. She manages to wrap a couple fingers around a chunk of my hair and I scream and pull away from her violently. She takes a little piece of me with her though.

Her breathing is labored. I go to the driver’s side so I can look down on her. I put my hands on my hips defiantly. I’ll just give her the cliff notes of my speech. “Delia. You are a total failure. As a mother, as a provider, as a girlfriend, as an employee, as a human, and more importantly, as a god. You’ve been a really crappy example for me, and I only hope that I can go on to the greatness I expect of myself despite the pathetic standards you’ve set for me,” I breathe out a heavy sigh. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?” There’s silence except for her ragged breathing. “Good.” I say, after a long pause. I’ve always thought the best speeches are the ones that have no interruptions or counterpoints so I’m pleased with this result.

It could also be that her tongue is too swollen to speak, which is okay too. I dodge Delia’s last wildly inaccurate swing as it comes through the open window, and then lock her arms down with a click of the seatbelt. I jam a piece of wood between the seat and the gas pedal and slam the driver’s side door, which has a lovely final sound. I lean through the open window and take the hat off her head so I can kiss her on her sweaty forehead. She tastes like salt. I toss the hat onto the seat next to her before shifting the car into gear, and barely get my arm clear of it as it takes off for the edge of the cliff.

I stand, hands on my hips, watching the car careen off the cliff and wait for the inevitable sound of the crash, or the explosion; I’m not sure which I’ll hear first. Strangely, I don’t hear either, because before I have a chance to notice any crashing explosions I’m filled with an incredible fire through my whole body. A burning, rotting roar of fire that makes me gasp for air. It’s agonizing pain for too long but then a strange warmth takes its place, a warmth I know I’ll never have to be without again. A warmth I know I’m right to have killed my mother for.

I had every intention of burning the trailer to the ground but when it comes time to pour the gasoline and light the match, it all seems overly-dramatic and less interesting than I’d imagined it to be. Plus, if I leave everything alone, who knows how long it will be before anything is discovered? Maybe someone will see the flames from the car or maybe they won’t. Certainly nobody will be wondering where my mother is anytime soon. She’s left such a small mark on the world; I doubt she’ll be missed by anyone at all.

Maybe I’ll miss her. Sometimes.

I’m only 16; it’s okay to maybe miss your mother sometimes, I think.

I stash the gasoline back inside the trailer, lock it up tight and grab my duffel bag from the dusty ground. I tie the bag to the back of my motorcycle and put on the helmet, not because I think I need it but because I don’t actually have a license and I figure the fewer flames I throw up the better off I am, at least for now. Besides, it’s a badass helmet and I look cool in it.

With my helmet on, my long legs straddling the machine, and my new power humming through my veins, I take off into the sunset. This part does feel like the movie, like what I’ve imagined. I feel like screaming at the sky, telling the world to watch out, giving it fair warning that Lola LeFever is finally coming to get it.

The world doesn’t stand a chance.



°

I run.

I run any time the world will let me. If I had my choice I’d just run through everything, I suppose.

I run as close to the boundary fence of the home as I can. Over the years I’ve worn a pretty impressive path into the yard. Until two months ago I’d actually taken pride in it, my running path. I hadn’t realized there was anything weird about running by a fence, the same path, the same way, day in and day out.