What's With the Machete?Mature

The trip to Colorado took a few days, with stops in between. We stayed at a couple sketchy motels. Sologne woke up a few times, though she hadn't fully come around yet. She was disoriented, her eyes open to small slits, her mouth forming only sentence fragments, such as; “Mom, hung over, coffee, sorry.”

She hadn't remembered anything. She was delirious, always thinking she was at home. Sawyer made me force feed her Gatorade and cans of soup, which she often spit back out at me. If this wasn't true friendship, than I no longer knew the meaning of the word.

Sawyer took out thousands of dollars at various ATMs, knowing that we would all be suspects of the fire at Lucarelli's, even more so for taking off like we did. He knew that using a credit card was a bad idea as it would be much easier to be tracked down that way. Also we had to ditch the van, any other time I would have been fine with that. This time I was reluctant to let go of the last piece of my parent's I had with me.

Sawyer traded it in for a piece of crap station wagon as long as the man asked no questions. The van was a newer model worth far more than the rust bucket station wagon. Sawyer also gave the man an alias name, Keith Flemming, he told him he left the title at home but he'd mail it to him within a week. The poor sap fell for it.

I stayed behind at the hotel with Renee and Sologone who was unconscious again. Ever since my parents death and the leviathan attack I've turned into a nocturnal creature. My water pistol always by my side, as I paced the motel room. I don't mind the insomnia, sleep would mean dreaming, and I wasn't ready to deal with those dreams just yet.

Renee sat on the floor of our motel room, her back perched against one of the beds, scribbling away in a pink journal I bought her at the dollar store. I needed her to have something to preoccupy her mind. I was a horrible sister I couldn't comfort her myself I couldn't deal with her questions.

“What are you writing?” I asked in what I hoped sounded like a genuine tone.

She didn't even bother glancing up at me. “A coming of age story.”

Odd, I thought, at least it would give her something to do. I glance at the pink cover of her journal. Artfully sketched with a sharpie was a supply of weapons specifically crafted for battle with the leviathans;,guns, holy water, rock salt, knifes that s mimic the ones in Sawyer's collection, that he hid in the van.

I rinsed off an apple, while inspecting the drawing even closer, “What's with the machete?” I asked.

Renee shrugged, “It's my coming of age story.”

I fill my mouth with a large bit of an apple, so I had a reason not to respond to that.          

The End

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