Fiction on the theme of Secret Life
Tom Hightower gripped the wheel of his pearl colored Range Rover. The rain turned the road into a shallow, raging river. Mary Hightower peered through the windshield, looking for the exit to her mother’s house on the highway. Timmy Hightower looked through his pocket notebook, trying to piece together the clues regarding the case Marie Swanson hired him for to find out who would forge a love letter in her handwriting to Carlos Francisco, Parker Lewis Middle School’s token pariah.
“Mary, do you see the exit yet?” Tom sighed. The sweat slowly created wet gloves around his hands.
“No, I don’t Tom. Why don’t we just pull over and sit a bit until the rain stops.”
“We’re running late as is, baby. There’s no need…”
The burst of the Range Rover’s right front and rear tire interrupted Tom’s sentence. Tom furiously turned the wheel as the Range Rover spun out before a Mack truck tapped it just enough for it to flip and roll until it stopped, wheels spinning in the air. The horn cried like a dirge as a figure in a raincoat walked over to the ruined Range Rover.
“Hhheeellp…hellllp ssusss.” Tom’s broken ribs fractured his plea. The figure walked to the back seat, crouched to look. The seatbelt kept Timmy in his seat, the blood trickling from his forehead onto the roof, sneaking over to his New York Mets hat. The figure picked something shiny out of the back right tire before walking back and picked something shiny out of the front tire. The figure crouched down, looked into Tom’s desperate gray eyes before covering his mouth. Tom’s arms wanted to move, slap the figure’s wrist. Tom’s eyes fluttered, his body slacked. The figure opened the raincoat slightly and placed the knives back into the black vest that kept all of his other throwing knives.
“The vessel…is ready.” The figure said to the rain.
“Good.” The rain hissed back. “You have done well.”
“Why them?”
“You’ll understand, eventually. Patience, my servant, patience. Our work is just beginning.”_______________
“Mary, do you see the exit yet?” Tom sighed. The sweat slowly created wet gloves around his hands.
“No, I don’t Tom. Why don’t we just pull over and sit a bit until the rain stops.”
“We’re running late as is, baby. There’s no need…”
The burst of the Range Rover’s right front and rear tire interrupted Tom’s sentence. Tom furiously turned the wheel as the Range Rover spun out before a Mack truck tapped it just enough for it to flip and roll until it stopped, wheels spinning in the air. The horn cried like a dirge as a figure in a raincoat walked over to the ruined Range Rover.
“Hhheeellp…hellllp ssusss.” Tom’s broken ribs fractured his plea. The figure walked to the back seat, crouched to look. The seatbelt kept Timmy in his seat, the blood trickling from his forehead onto the roof, sneaking over to his New York Mets hat. The figure picked something shiny out of the back right tire before walking back and picked something shiny out of the front tire. The figure crouched down, looked into Tom’s desperate gray eyes before covering his mouth. Tom’s arms wanted to move, slap the figure’s wrist. Tom’s eyes fluttered, his body slacked. The figure opened the raincoat slightly and placed the knives back into the black vest that kept all of his other throwing knives.
“The vessel…is ready.” The figure said to the rain.
“Good.” The rain hissed back. “You have done well.”
“Why them?”
“You’ll understand, eventually. Patience, my servant, patience. Our work is just beginning.”_______________
“This is madness, you know, madness. I get it, you invented the sun, and animals, and man, and a younger version of yourself and then had your younger version killed and resurrected, but why this? Why are you going to do this to him?” Peter asked the steps near the throne.
“Peter, you know better to question my plans, don’t you?” The words tightened around the gatekeeper’s throat. Peter nodded and his breathing sounded normal again.
“Haven’t you done enough to him?”
“He doesn’t understand, doesn’t see the full spectrum of human suffering. He died once to save everyone from total destruction. Now, he must decide if his sacrifice was worth it. If I actually sent him back as himself to that world, the entire population would go insane. Kirk Cameron would never shut up. I warned him that if he kept helping rappers and actors and football players win things, I would have to do something extreme. How much more time do we have access to the vessel, Peter?”
“A few more hours. Will that be enough time?”
“I invented time, or have you forgotten?”