Page 3 of Clean Hack

It wasn’t like I knew the people here. Or that they knew me. It wasn’t like they knew when to expect to see me next or that I knew I’d be welcomed with pies and casseroles at my return. Because there wasn’t any of those things. Oddly, it was more like some strange false illusion every time my tires crossed over the town limits.

But even with all that said, maybe I was just sad enough to smile at the simple things. Like the massive enjoyment I got with every bite that filled my mouth.

Maybe my life was a sad excuse for such a thing. I could even agree with that without any kind of protest. But it wasn’t like I could really change how it was. Forget the fact that I wasn’t a fan of people, I couldn’t really reach out and make those types of connections. I realized long ago that the type of life I led would be a lonely path. I had known that diving in. Even if I felt the need or want to change that there was no way I could. I was never in the same place for very long and it would sometimes be months before I’d return.

Maybe there was some kind of club for people like me. The others. The lone wolves that in a sense took care of the shit that people didn’t want to. We could get together and have an understanding of the darkness we all shared but never really talk about it. Hell, maybe we could brew beer as a group relaxation project.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” I mumbled to the empty room.

I was losing it. Sleep deprived. That had to be the reason that my mind was carrying me to strange places.

I wiped my head clean. Something I’d gotten good at because when I was on a job I always wanted to be focused. Nothing like being off in fucking La La Land while you’re using a bone saw. That was how people lost fingers. And I really wanted to keep all of mine.

Then I focused on finishing my meal, ignoring the fact that I knew I’d savor that last bite, chewing it a few more times than necessary before swallowing it down.

I changed the sheets and was pretty sure I was out the moment I crawled into bed.

This wasn’t home. I didn’t have one so that was how I knew this wasn’t it. I lived on the dream ofone dayin the back of my mind. The very, way far back of my mind. One fucking day Icouldhave a place to call home.

I had no idea why I chose to stay there a week. I ate a fucking burger every day that I was there, and I didn’t have an answer for why to that either.

A week of odd relaxation.

Then I hit the ground running. Not because I wanted to or forced myself to, but because the calls seemed to come in one after the other.