This is a novel written in fifteen minute intervals with each day’s fifteen minutes started with the last line of the previous day.
Day 3: Lately his world consisted mostly of a series of endings.
Lately his world consisted mostly of a series of endings. If he was honest with himself the endings started before the shooting, before the break down of his car. If anything the break down was the final door slamming shut on the wreckage of what had once been his life. He was at a crossroads and had yet to determine which path to take. Others were attempting to cajole him down the path they preferred. The shooting ended those attempts.
It was, oddly something he felt guiltily relived by. For the first time in he didn’t know how long he had the space to think, to plan instead of react or be jostled by someone else’s needs. At times the relief of it made him feel giddy. Then, in his mind, he’d see the blood and the guilt would threaten to swamp him.
‘I wish he hadn’t died,’ James thought for what seemed like the millionth time.
James set the thought aside, again for the millionth time, and focused on the present. He followed the agent off of the plane. The air smelled of fuel and mechanical heat. There was a breeze, but it was more from the aircraft than reality. They walked away from the plane and the air swiftly became clearer. The scent of fuel faded. It added to James’ impression that this was a small landing strip rather than a major airport.
Their steps took them to a dusty ford Focus. Under the coating of dust and the spatters of mud it was a dark blue color. James almost smiled at it. Since the shooting the few times he was allowed to leave the safe house he was bundled up into a shiny black officially non-descript looking vehicle. It was nice to know that here at least, they left the officially non-descript behind. His agent unlocked the doors and James climbed into the passenger’s seat, the small bag he was allowed to take with him balanced on his lap as his agent took the driver’s seat.
As the engine turned over, a blast of country music spat out of the speakers. James didn’t know enough of the genre to identify the singer. His agent clicked off the radio, his cheeks pinking from the unexpected display of humanity.
Agents weren’t supposed to be human. It was something James learned since the shooting. They weren’t supposed to be your friend or allowed to have personalities. They were supposed to be interchangeable. It was one of the reasons that he thought of this one as his agent rather than Bob, Ralph, Thelonious or whatever his name actually was. They had never been introduced. He was certain someone added a surname to the Agent bit at some point, but there had been so many agents he was passed through that he could barely remember their faces let alone their names. Once he had been good with faces, good with names. They drove into the darkness, the headlights on the now silent ford slicing through the night. James was relieved when their path seemed to be veering towards some sort of city or town rather than continuing off into the darkness.
“Once we get the initial paperwork done your official case agent will be taking you to your accommodations and getting you settled,” his agent said. James nodded. He had been told this before. His agent would be dropping him off and leaving him for others to deal with. He would be long one when James was issued a new name and new identity. When he left, James would become someone else.
Ten til Midnight 