Chapter One ~ Jack
Jack glanced nervously back and forth, jerky eyes searching for some unknown object in the thick traffic of a wintry Friday. As the cars ahead slowed to a stop at the command of the blaring red light, he shoved a trembling hand into the pocket of his old, frayed jeans, and emerged with a cigarette from his seemingly never-ending supply.
With a blistered finger he flicked on his battered red lighter, and brought it up to his mouth, which now held the cheap cigarette between its tauntly pursed lips. His eyes glazed over, momentarily mesmerized by the bright, dancing flame. It was a mellow orange, with a bright auburn center and flecks of a yellow-gold scattered along the tips of its glowing contours. It seemed to beckon him, with its enchantingly comforting movements, and, for a brief while, he sat hypnotized by its flickering contortions.
Then, as if realizing his entrapment, he shook his head to break the away his eyes, and finally lighted the impatiently waiting cigarette. He admitted to his inner self that he probably should not be smoking: it caused much-dreaded tension between him and Christine, and, in addition, it was rather bad for his health. Regardless of such warnings, though, his cracked lips continued to routinely emit small puffs of smoke. If he ended up dying from lung cancer at the young age of thirty, it would probably be to his advantage, he told himself. And, about the strain created between him and Christine, well, there was nothing he could ever really do about that.
He turned his head over to the car to his left, also waiting sluggishly to move on in traffic that had become thicker than molasses. There was an African-American woman seated inside, with her young daughter sprawled in the space beside her. The child appeared to only be about ten years old or so, and was flipping through what was probably her school binder. Occasionally, she would look up at her mom, as it to answer her indulging inquiries, and her mother would in turn look back down at her affectionately. He imagined that he could share the love they felt for each other, even through the thick barriers set between his life and theirs.
He noted that they were driving a deep blue Chevrolet, one that shined cheerfully in the sun and was probably no more than a year or so old. They were most likely a rather well off family, unlike him, in his nearly broken down Ford pickup truck, its once proud red now faded and subdued. He believed it was more red from the rough layer of rust biting into its shell, and it was caked with splashes of dried mud from his increasingly frequent late-night forays. There had been times before, when his money was not so strained as it now was, that he could have obtained a newer, nicer car to drive, but to his dismay, and, to the dismay of his pocketbook, Christine had insisted on having a new car of her own. She had to do no more than pout and cry about it until he quickly granted her wishes so that he could see her smile again, and, now, his opportunity seemed to have passed forever.
Looking back again towards his neighbors, he felt the sharp twang of jealousy. Tonight, they would both have returned to their tender home. The little girl would jet swiftly into her fathers arms, enthusiastically telling him how much she missed him, and that he was never to leave to work again. The man would chuckle affectionately, and remind his loving daughter that he had only gone missing for a few short hours. Grinning, he would lift the child up towards the sky, and swing her about in the air as she giggled happily. Eventually abandoning such jovial sport, they would then all gather around their newly obtained Christmas tree, and smother it with gaudy decorations until it appeared as if it would hold no more. Later on in the night -
Jack glanced nervously back and forth, jerky eyes searching for some unknown object in the thick traffic of a wintry Friday. As the cars ahead slowed to a stop at the command of the blaring red light, he shoved a trembling hand into the pocket of his old, frayed jeans, and emerged with a cigarette from his seemingly never-ending supply.
With a blistered finger he flicked on his battered red lighter, and brought it up to his mouth, which now held the cheap cigarette between its tauntly pursed lips. His eyes glazed over, momentarily mesmerized by the bright, dancing flame. It was a mellow orange, with a bright auburn center and flecks of a yellow-gold scattered along the tips of its glowing contours. It seemed to beckon him, with its enchantingly comforting movements, and, for a brief while, he sat hypnotized by its flickering contortions.
Then, as if realizing his entrapment, he shook his head to break the away his eyes, and finally lighted the impatiently waiting cigarette. He admitted to his inner self that he probably should not be smoking: it caused much-dreaded tension between him and Christine, and, in addition, it was rather bad for his health. Regardless of such warnings, though, his cracked lips continued to routinely emit small puffs of smoke. If he ended up dying from lung cancer at the young age of thirty, it would probably be to his advantage, he told himself. And, about the strain created between him and Christine, well, there was nothing he could ever really do about that.
He turned his head over to the car to his left, also waiting sluggishly to move on in traffic that had become thicker than molasses. There was an African-American woman seated inside, with her young daughter sprawled in the space beside her. The child appeared to only be about ten years old or so, and was flipping through what was probably her school binder. Occasionally, she would look up at her mom, as it to answer her indulging inquiries, and her mother would in turn look back down at her affectionately. He imagined that he could share the love they felt for each other, even through the thick barriers set between his life and theirs.
He noted that they were driving a deep blue Chevrolet, one that shined cheerfully in the sun and was probably no more than a year or so old. They were most likely a rather well off family, unlike him, in his nearly broken down Ford pickup truck, its once proud red now faded and subdued. He believed it was more red from the rough layer of rust biting into its shell, and it was caked with splashes of dried mud from his increasingly frequent late-night forays. There had been times before, when his money was not so strained as it now was, that he could have obtained a newer, nicer car to drive, but to his dismay, and, to the dismay of his pocketbook, Christine had insisted on having a new car of her own. She had to do no more than pout and cry about it until he quickly granted her wishes so that he could see her smile again, and, now, his opportunity seemed to have passed forever.
Looking back again towards his neighbors, he felt the sharp twang of jealousy. Tonight, they would both have returned to their tender home. The little girl would jet swiftly into her fathers arms, enthusiastically telling him how much she missed him, and that he was never to leave to work again. The man would chuckle affectionately, and remind his loving daughter that he had only gone missing for a few short hours. Grinning, he would lift the child up towards the sky, and swing her about in the air as she giggled happily. Eventually abandoning such jovial sport, they would then all gather around their newly obtained Christmas tree, and smother it with gaudy decorations until it appeared as if it would hold no more. Later on in the night -