The Bloody Envelope

The faux leather of the wheel becomes slick with her sweat. She grips tighter still, making her knuckles ache and blood crawl from the fresh stinging wounds. 

From the other side of the road headlights leisure toward the speeding ‘65 Ford Mustang, but the woman keeps her eyes on the envelope slanted against the front windshield, crinkled with blood – not hers, at least, not much. Sweat drips from her tight upper lip, leaving a salty kiss on her tongue that catches it in a lover’s fashion. 

She revels in this part. The high of the false chase, catching glances of her own serrated, glistening eyes in the rearview, James Hetfield blowing through her ears, rattling the loose items strewn across the floorboards, and the pure, consuming darkness that surrounds the road and everyone on it like a thick swarm of gnats. 

The music isn’t always this good and the car isn’t always this messy, but it’s different every time. And she will never pass up an opportunity for a joyride. Pop pop pop. 

As her mileage increases so does her pulse, threatening to make that hot, fleshy thing of life rise out and through her tight, heaving chest. Hannah. Her name was Hannah. But at this moment she was Not Hannah. She was outside of herself. An unstoppable thing. A force of thrill, speed, adrenaline, and desire. 

Not Hannah lifts a shaky hand to her newly-chopped hair and pulls the side tight, tilting her head to the right. She tugs. Tugs harder. The rusty engive revs. They should’ve just shaved it, not Hannah thinks with annoyance, now I just look like a fuckin’ wannabe fairy. She decides she’ll do it later when she can get her hands on some cash and a cheap motel room. 

A flash of purple in the cupholder reminds her to smoke. Fumbling a cigarette from her jacket pocket and cranking the music higher, the woman tries to decipher possible routes, whizzing past an exit freeway sign. A cigarette catches and burns over her purple light, briefly illuminating the cut on her full lower lip, all smudged with cheap drugstore red lipstick. 

She leans out the window, lays her head down, and observes the curled smoke wash up against the chill of the night. Hannah has always needed to keep moving to the next gamble, fight, hookup, or city, but Not Hannah…Not Hannah isn’t like that. She gets to be outside of her physical cage, can float above the shit and pain and smell and ache, and just live in the ecstasy.

Sure, she can feel her neck twitch with nerves and knuckles swell, but she’s out of range. In the in-between. Away from those dickwads. Correction, bleeding, and hog-tied dickwads. Flexing her throbbing fingers and adjusting her heated groin, Not Hannah switches eye contact with the demanding manila envelope and surrounding endless desert-lined road. 

The road is mostly empty of strangers, only a few cars have passed since the woman began rousing the streets to her presence. Her Mustang’s headlights creep against the rusted road signs while her eyes fail to read anything familiar. She huffs and leans back against her seat. Why does everything have to look different at night, she mutters. 

As Not Hannah directs more smoke out the window, she pictures the absent drivers already in their beds, tossing and turning, some cuddling a snoring partner. Another stays up late, jacking off to mediocre porn in their itchy bedsheets, trying to ignore the dog whining and pawing at the shut bedroom door, then cries against their ex-girlfriend's silk pillowcase after climaxing until sleep supposes it’ll put them out of their sticky misery. 

A snort fills the car. Miserable lucky fucks, she muses. 

Grey thunderclouds roll in from the midnight blue horizon, bringing a kind of softness to the sharp atmosphere following the getaway car, threatening to douse the raging inferno of assumed authority that is Not Hannah.

Screeeeeeeeech. Hannah’s body is thrown to the side, her hands grip the wheel with python strength and her teeth crush the cigarette stub as the car comes to a smoking halt just a yard from a small fox, frozen mid-stride. The breaths of both creatures are shallow and heavy as their eyes meet. An ear twitches outside. Music bumps in the car. 

It hurts to release her grip, but she slowly levitates her right hand up then down toward the gear shift. Thunder rumbles in the distance, scaring off the suicidal animal. Fucker. Switching gears and pulling to the side of the road, Hannah reevaluates her plan. 

There’s nothing but dirt and pavement for miles to come, and there’s been no sign of human life the last 15ish miles. Suddenly, Hannah doesn’t feel the like most fearsome thing to be out. 

She strains forward, agitating the soreness in her gut, and grabs the stiff envelope. It’s been whispering look at me look at me look at me since she sped off into the drowning sunset. Every few moments Hannah could have sworn she saw it pulse with a heartbeat. The cigarette dims in the dirt from where she spit it moments before, the only evidence of her presence on the road. 

She feels the contents within the thick paper, tracing the edges a dozen times over. Her head ignites with a migraine, begging her to rub her temples until there’s no trace. Ignoring her needs, Hannah slides her finger under the spit seal on one end and drags until it pops out the other side. 

3 hours earlier

Flashes of light and muffled conversations are all of what Hannah can make out from under the woven sack tied to her head. She tries to lower her breathing and sharpen her hearing, then tunes into the voices of the front seats.

“... fuckin’ hurry man, we can’t be late deliverin’ this package. Boss won’t be happy. And I ain’t takin’ the fall for this shit,” argues the passenger. She senses a gesture to the back seat.

“Not even worth our time…this is important, this,” another gesture and possible flick of the bird, “is lower than dirt. Could feel her dick when I tackled her. Not my type. I like em’ whimperin’ and puppy-eyed.” Hannah zones out from the stifling heat, adjusts her aching tied arms, and feels for the knife tucked into her high-top chucks. 

The driver, who sounds like a wannabe Terminator, tries to play down the other’s anger, “Ahhh, you know I can’t help it. She was asking to be picked up. Literally.” 

His voice is now crystal clear as he swivels his head toward the back. Hannah freezes in her pursuit to untie her shoelace, her hand almost on the pocket knife digging into the underside of her foot. 

“Flagged us down like her life depended on it.” A throaty laugh fills the hot space. 

“Did it?” He asks. 

She returns the laugh, the sound bouncing around in her headbag. “You have no idea.” 

***

Hannah pulls back onto the road and simmers. Rain has started to fall so she sticks her arm out to feel the cool droplets. 

The envelope lies discarded on the car floor, its contents dispersed on the passenger seat. 

Where is a fuckin’ payphone in this fuckin’ wasteland, she mumbles, trying to keep her composure, shifting again and again, not finding anything comfortable. 

Not Hannah is gone, but there hasn’t been a moment when the girl driving the stolen car needed her more. 

The music is gone and the rain is pounding the car. Ping ping ping ping ping ping ping ping ping.

Blaring lights accompanied by a loud whirring noise consume the silenced night. She thinks about picking up her speed as the helicopter approaches the car, but thinks better of it. Let’s get this over with, Hannah decides, pulling the car over once again and putting it in park. 

She rolls her neck and tries to massage the sore muscles, as soon she’ll be spending a lot of time in a sterile steel room with terrible haircuts and boring suits urging her to promptly recall the day's muddled events. She can already picture the slide of shitty lukewarm coffee and stale donuts, attempting to warm her hands and loosen her memory. 

Hannah leaves everything behind in the car knowing the suits will take care of it and unlatches the driver's side door, kicking it open and stepping out. The adrenaline is gone and now she rubs her arms to get the feeling back. Rain lights up pure white as the helicopter touches down about thirty yards from the idling car. 

Making it easy for them, Hannah trudges up to the suit now making his way toward her. He holds an umbrella over his head and offers it to Hannah when they’re close enough. 

“How’d you find me?” She sighs with exasperation. 

A familiar and trying crooked smile appears on his face, “You’re the only one out on this godforsaken road. For better or worse.”

He scuffs a polished shoe in the dirt and wipes his mouth. His tell for nerves.

“I was too late.” 

He beckons her closer, wrapping his arms around her like an awkward uncle, then rubs her stiff shoulders, leading them to the waiting helicopter. 

“You did your job,” he tries. 

Hannah rolls her head back, letting drops fall in her mouth till she can feel the lipstick loosen.