Eracism
image by B. J. Jenson
Eracism.
“What’s that on there for anyway?”
The item the skinny man with a greying beard, ribbed undershirt, and oversized flannel was indicating with a somewhat crooked forefinger, was a back windshield sticker that promoted inclusion.
The woman sighed, used to this.
“It just means that all people should be treated equally.”
The man squints behind plastic-rimmed glasses.
“You one of them, is ya?”
It wasn’t really the safest of ideas, this road trip. Her mother begged her not to go, cried even. But she was so damn tired of being afraid. She wanted to live. She wanted to live on her own terms for the first time in her life.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“One of them equal rights people.”
She really wants to get out of there, but the man is blocking the way to the driver’s side. She’d had to stop and get gas an hour away from her destination, a major town and her motel.
“Uh…”
She doesn’t really know what to say, because damn right she is, but he probably also believes women should be barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen and people should still have different water fountains.
A younger, burly, man approaches them.
“Whatcha saying to the girl, Earl? Looks like yer got her scared.”
“Just wondering what that symbol means there on the back.”
The younger man squints at the sticker.
The woman fidgets with the keys in her hand. She tries to walk around the other side so she can at least get in the car, but the younger man blocks her way.
“Aw hell, Earl, it just means she’s one of them city slickers that thinks we’re all just a bunch of ignorant hicks, ain’t that right?”
She doesn’t know what to do here. I mean, yeah, they probably were, but she also did not want to end up in the back of Earl’s truck bound and gagged.
“No, I don’t think that. Look, I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
“You ain’t got time fur us, is that it?”
The younger one is looming over her now, and she just wants to get the hell out of Dodge.
“No, I just… I just need to go.”
The younger one reaches for her cheek, and she recoils.
“Too good fur me too, huh?”
“I just… I just need to leave.”
She hated this, the placating so that she could just go on her way. She hated everything this situation represented, and she hated them.
The bigger one looms over her again and presses her against the car, the wiper pressing into her back.
“We’ll teach her, won’t we Earl?”
She had thought people only used each other’s names this much on television.
Earl smiles, revealing decayed teeth.
“Yeah, we’ll teach her to be one of them equal rights lovers.”
She knew this was it, knew there was no way to avoid what would happen next.
The younger one had her on the ground instantly, her hands tied behind her back.
She felt the sting against her cheek and knew there was gonna be a scar there.
She makes sure to look at Earl’s plates as they throw her, bound and gagged, into the back of Earl’s truck, just like she knew they would.
When they get her to the basement, she looks around, trying to familiarize herself with the place. There was a wooden staircase, a hanging lightbulb, and the overwhelming smell of mold.
Earl is the one to approach her first; she was actually betting it was gonna be the other one.
Earl takes his crooked finger and begins running it down her cheek.
“The world needs less of you and yer bleedin’ heart kind.”
She tilts her head and tries to look as frightened as possible. He pulls the gag out and she makes a show of licking her lips and coughing.
“Yer can yell all yer want, they won’t hear ya nohow. Nearest neighbor is a good mile away.” He leans his face down to hers and she takes her shot.
What she came here for anyway.
She digs her teeth into his neck, right where his pulse point is, bites as hard as she can, and rips her head back.
Earl’s blood stains the front of her mouth, her shirt, and spurts in all it’s wonderful homophobic, racist glory onto the damp, cold floor.
She spits out the bit of neck that is in her mouth and watches as Earl falls to the floor, his hand on his neck.
She carefully works on the rope next. For backwoods boys, those two don’t know how to tie a rope.
She undoes her hands in five minutes and makes quick work of her feet.
She leaves the ropes around the chair for law enforcement to find later.
Her steps around and over Earl are lithe as she finds something to use against Junior.
She sees a crowbar, shrugs, and heads upstairs.
“Ya done already?”
Junior turns around from the stained sofa to the appearance of a woman covered in blood, some of it still dripping, smiling with teeth stained with red and bits of skin.
He stands and stumbles backward into the TV.
She advances, smiling all the while.
He tries to run, but it does him no good. She hits him once with the crowbar, and he falls, and she keeps hitting until his blood, brains, and some bits of skeleton are exposed.
She holds onto the crowbar and heads outside, making sure to open the door with a piece of shirt she ripped from Junior’s body.
Her car is waiting for her outside with a driver in the front seat.
She opens the passenger door with the shirt and sits on a piece of thick plastic.
A small woman with a killer smile hands her a wet wipe.
“Wipe your mouth off so I can kiss you, you kickass bitch.”
The bumper sticker gets smaller and smaller as they drive on.
“Eracism”.
R. K. Lewis
R.K. Lewis is a avid dog lover, book worm, and writer. She enjoys binge watching various Netflix shows. She is also a big fan of rhetoric, and enjoys writing rhetorical analyses (she knows it’s dorky). She is also a big fan of “Supernatural” and “Star Trek.”
