The road had no name, which was probably why she trusted it.
Named things came with expectations.
Destinations.
Promises.
Graves.
She had learned enough about all four.
She left before sunrise with one bag, half a tank of gas, and nothing in the back seat worth turning around for.
For the first hundred miles, she ignored the suggested route.
County roads.
Farm roads.
Two-lane highways passing through towns where the gas stations still had bells above the doors.
At mile 113, she stopped beneath a flickering canopy.
The old man behind the counter looked through the window at her motorcycle.
“Where you headed?”
“West.”
“What’s west?”
She handed him a twenty.
“More road.”
Her phone vibrated against the counter.
She turned it facedown.
Outside, the desert waited.
Patient.
Indifferent.
Perfect.
By noon, the city had disappeared from her mirrors.
She checked anyway.
Once at the light.
Again before the interstate.
Again when a black truck stayed behind her for seventeen miles.
It turned north.
She continued west.
By nightfall, the temperature dropped.
She pulled her jacket tighter and rode past abandoned motels, rusted cars, and houses with broken windows.
Things nobody had saved.
Things still standing.
At the state line, she stopped beneath a weathered sign.
Her phone vibrated.
Then again.
Then again.
She removed the SIM card.
In her pocket, her fingers brushed against an old brass key.
She held both in her palm beneath the moonlight.
The SIM card disappeared into the dirt.
The key went back into her pocket.
She crossed the state line without looking behind her.
Near midnight, she found a motel with six rooms and a vacancy sign missing the V.
She paid cash.
Room four.
Second floor.
She locked the door.
Then the deadbolt.
Then pushed the little wooden chair beneath the handle.
She stared at it for a moment.
Left it there.
She slept in her clothes.
Her boots remained beside the bed.
The motorcycle key stayed beneath the pillow.
At 4:13 a.m., headlights moved across the ceiling.
Her eyes opened.
A car door slammed.
Footsteps crossed the pavement.
Then another door closed.
Silence.
She stared at the ceiling until sunrise.
By six, she was gone.
Three days later, the desert became mountains.
She stopped using maps.
She learned which gas stations had coffee worth drinking and which motels didn’t ask questions.
She stopped giving her real name when strangers asked.
Then, eventually, she stopped caring whether they knew it.
On the fourth morning, she realized she had forgotten to check the parking lot.
She stood at the motel window holding a cup of terrible coffee.
Her motorcycle was exactly where she’d left it.
Nothing beside it.
Nothing behind it.
Nothing waiting.
She drank the coffee.
On the seventh night, she forgot the chair.
She noticed sometime after midnight.
For several minutes she stared at the door.
Then rolled over.
The chair stayed beneath the little motel table.
Weeks passed.
She started leaving her boots by the door instead of beside the bed.
The motorcycle key moved from beneath her pillow to the nightstand.
One morning, she slept until nine.
Another morning, ten.
Eventually there were mornings when she didn’t know what time it was.
She liked those best.
Somewhere farther west, she found a roadside bar with a jukebox older than the building.
She took the stool at the end.
Back against the wall.
Old habits.
The bartender placed a drink in front of her.
Someone fed the jukebox.
The first few notes made her stop with the glass halfway to her mouth.
She knew this song.
She smiled.
Not because it reminded her of anything.
Because it didn’t anymore.
Her fingers slipped into her jacket pocket.
The brass key was still there.
She turned it once between her fingers.
Whatever it opened was a long way from here.
She put it back.
Outside, the motorcycle waited beneath a neon sign.
There were roads north.
Roads south.
Roads farther west.
For the first time, she didn’t choose one because it was the safest.
She chose one because she liked the way the mountains looked in that direction.
She finished her drink.
Put a few dollars beneath the glass.
And walked outside.
And when he said ride your life of failure straight to hell, I knew he was speaking to himself, and she lived happily ever after.
Mr. Brightside — The Killers
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