Everything else, everywhere else, wasn’t.
So he’d called the office and told them he wouldn’t be in for a couple of weeks, told them he was still hurting from the crash, and given himself an unscheduled holiday. The sort of holiday he most wanted. A safe one. At least for a few days.
Still eventually he had to go outside. He knew that. He’d always known that, which was how he’d made it through his childhood. Forcing himself to do what had to be done. And after a couple of days of scarcely even looking out the window, he finally found the courage to force himself to go down to the station in a taxi, and pick up his envelope of personal effects. Years of living his nightmares had taught him that he had to face his fears, or else live in a closet. In the end you always had to go on. It was that or death.
He had to wonder though, as he was driven back to his house, why he’d even bothered. It was a very small envelope. A few discs for the cd player, a couple of paper files from work, a box of tissues, his camera and some coins from the tray. Not much to show for his morning’s effort. Not much to show for having abandoned the safety of his home, for having somehow pushed all the terror he felt out in the open back down in to the dark recesses of his subconscious. Hell they could have chucked a stamp on it and mailed it to him. Actually they could have kept it. He wouldn’t have cared.
At least though, he hadn’t had to face the inspector again. That would have been too much. The man had looked at him as though he was some sort of criminal, and his questions once he’d started, didn’t seem to stop. Instead he’d just asked and asked and asked them, often repeating the same question three or four times in a row, hoping perhaps he’d change his story or get caught in a lie. And all the time he was chewing absently on a pen while his eyes had narrowed to slits as he stared straight at him, searching for the lie.
Being interviewed by the inspector Rufus had felt as though he was the one on trial, as though he was the suspect, and that had seemed frightfully unfair to him at the time. Battered and bruised, still shaking from the shock of what had happened, and being fussed over by the nurses in the hospital who kept trying to remove the last of his blood, the last thing he needed was to be accused of a crime. Especially the crime that had been committed on him. But he hadn’t found the words to say that to the inspector. None that he would have accepted anyway. The man didn’t seem a particularly understanding sort.
Inspector Barns didn’t like being interrupted either. When one of his subordinates had come to see him he’d snapped at him like an angry pitbull terrier, and sent the man scurrying away while he continued his interrogation of the victim. Rufus would have hated to work in his office.
It was clear that the inspector didn’t believe him, though what there was to doubt he wasn’t sure. On the other hand he kept wondering if it had really happened, himself. It was simply so bizarre. Cars self-destructing, people in speeding trucks shooting at him with machine guns. It was madness. It was the sort of thing that happened in the movies, not real life. Not his life anyway. His life was boring, just the way he liked it.
Still even if it had gone mad, even if all his nightmares had returned, he had faced his fears once more. He had left his home and claimed his stuff. And in time he knew, or he hoped, the fear would go away again. He should be proud of himself. Rufus told himself that as he paid the driver and headed back to his haven. He had told himself the same many times before. But it never really helped.
“Crap!” The first thing Rufus saw when he made it up the half dozen steps to his front door was that it was open. Pushed in. And just like that his feeling of safety was completely gone, maybe never to return. His home, the only place he could feel
So he’d called the office and told them he wouldn’t be in for a couple of weeks, told them he was still hurting from the crash, and given himself an unscheduled holiday. The sort of holiday he most wanted. A safe one. At least for a few days.
Still eventually he had to go outside. He knew that. He’d always known that, which was how he’d made it through his childhood. Forcing himself to do what had to be done. And after a couple of days of scarcely even looking out the window, he finally found the courage to force himself to go down to the station in a taxi, and pick up his envelope of personal effects. Years of living his nightmares had taught him that he had to face his fears, or else live in a closet. In the end you always had to go on. It was that or death.
He had to wonder though, as he was driven back to his house, why he’d even bothered. It was a very small envelope. A few discs for the cd player, a couple of paper files from work, a box of tissues, his camera and some coins from the tray. Not much to show for his morning’s effort. Not much to show for having abandoned the safety of his home, for having somehow pushed all the terror he felt out in the open back down in to the dark recesses of his subconscious. Hell they could have chucked a stamp on it and mailed it to him. Actually they could have kept it. He wouldn’t have cared.
At least though, he hadn’t had to face the inspector again. That would have been too much. The man had looked at him as though he was some sort of criminal, and his questions once he’d started, didn’t seem to stop. Instead he’d just asked and asked and asked them, often repeating the same question three or four times in a row, hoping perhaps he’d change his story or get caught in a lie. And all the time he was chewing absently on a pen while his eyes had narrowed to slits as he stared straight at him, searching for the lie.
Being interviewed by the inspector Rufus had felt as though he was the one on trial, as though he was the suspect, and that had seemed frightfully unfair to him at the time. Battered and bruised, still shaking from the shock of what had happened, and being fussed over by the nurses in the hospital who kept trying to remove the last of his blood, the last thing he needed was to be accused of a crime. Especially the crime that had been committed on him. But he hadn’t found the words to say that to the inspector. None that he would have accepted anyway. The man didn’t seem a particularly understanding sort.
Inspector Barns didn’t like being interrupted either. When one of his subordinates had come to see him he’d snapped at him like an angry pitbull terrier, and sent the man scurrying away while he continued his interrogation of the victim. Rufus would have hated to work in his office.
It was clear that the inspector didn’t believe him, though what there was to doubt he wasn’t sure. On the other hand he kept wondering if it had really happened, himself. It was simply so bizarre. Cars self-destructing, people in speeding trucks shooting at him with machine guns. It was madness. It was the sort of thing that happened in the movies, not real life. Not his life anyway. His life was boring, just the way he liked it.
Still even if it had gone mad, even if all his nightmares had returned, he had faced his fears once more. He had left his home and claimed his stuff. And in time he knew, or he hoped, the fear would go away again. He should be proud of himself. Rufus told himself that as he paid the driver and headed back to his haven. He had told himself the same many times before. But it never really helped.
“Crap!” The first thing Rufus saw when he made it up the half dozen steps to his front door was that it was open. Pushed in. And just like that his feeling of safety was completely gone, maybe never to return. His home, the only place he could feel
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