Joe, the Ugly GuyMature

Jane repeated herself, “I said, who are you?

The man coughed abruptly, probably to clear his throat and answer. But it caught Jane off-guard and the gun discharged in her hand.

It recoiled, the weapon was so powerful. almost launching her backward through the missing windshield. And she dropped it, and the knife as she rolled back out in the snow.

Fuck!” she exclaimed, blinking rapidly, and rubbing her ears harshly. To stop the ringing deep inside.

Slowly, she rose to her feet, and clambered back in the cab of the truck.

Oh, fuck!” Jane cried, when she saw the bullet has went squarely between his eyes. Thick red blood oozed down. A pool had formed.

Fuck. Have I killed three men now? And yet, she didn’t seem terribly upset. She was relatively calm. In fact, she had been calm since she ‘woke up’ without her memory. But I wasn’t expecting the recoil. And I flinched when he made a noise. What does that mean?

“Why the fuck can’t I remember anything?”

Jane puzzled for a minute. Squinting. Thinking. Trying to remember something about herself. Who? What? When? Where? Why? How? But nothing sprang to mind. Only the cold. Inching in.

I need a coat. But there was nothing in the truck except for the one on the man she just shot. Jane sighed, he’s not using it.

Awkwardly she managed to get in the back seat. And once she had one of the parka sleeves free from the man’s arm, it was quite simple to take off the rest of it from his dead, limp, hanging corpse.

Jane wrapped the coat around herself and felt the warmth rushing in immediately. It was soft and plush, and would have been nice had it not been for the cuts and gashes on the sleeves. She zipped it up, and dug through the pockets.

In them was the usual lint, tissues, scraps of paper. A set of keys. She pulled the keys out to investigate them, and ran her fingers over the grooves and ridges of the brass and nickle-plated openers. Perhaps to spark a memory. She didn’t get anything out of them, but she didn’t discard them.

She also picked up the gun and the knife and put them in the coat pockets. Strangely, they made her feel safer. Do I need them? Do I need protection?

Then she went through the man’s pants pockets. In there she found a wallet, and in the wallet, she found his driver's’ licence.  

“Joseph Ewing,” Jane read aloud. She tried to reconcile the dead man’s face to that featured on the card. Tried to remember the face. It was a good likeness. And a handsome face until she blew it away. Not so handsome anymore.

“Oh god. Was that a joke? Jeez, am I ever morbid.”

She didn’t show remorse for killing the man. A man she didn’t know. But that was an accident, she told herself.  And she wasn’t faint at the sight of blood, or dead bodies. Maybe I’m a mortician? or a pathologist?

She returned to the front seat now and scoured the contents of the glove box. Manuals mostly, but she found out the car was registered to a Morris Oates. I don’t know or remember him.

In that moment, she saw another source of light aside from the one in the car, and the rays of the moon. One coming from the road. Had someone come to help?

The End

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