"Love didn't grow very well in a place where there was only fear."

― Stephen King, The Stand

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Personal Hell.

The jet black 1950 Chevy Fleetline slowly pulls off the paved highway and into the parking lot of a small, privately owned garage. The sign standing high above the building is so faded and worn away that it's completely indecipherable.

The car looks brand new. It shines in the Texas sunlight, not a single speck of desert dust claims home to the vehicle. The tinted windows match the jet black paint, making it impossible to view the inside of the vehicle. It slowly comes to a stop just across from the open overhead door and shuts off. The driver's door opens and the Old Man steps out from the vehicle. The bright white suit he wears reflects the brightness of the sun and makes it appear as if he was glowing. The brim of his white derby hat covers his eyes, making his simple, happy-go-lucky smile the only visible facial feature. He steps towards the open garage and walks in.

A red pick-up truck is parked inside with it's hood open. The Old Man looks around for a moment, he sees and hears nothing. To his right is a broken wooden door that is fixed open, where the front counter would be if there was one. A small, cluttered desk is makes up most of the lobby. The Old Man walks over to the desk and rings the small bell he sees.

*Ding.*

The Old man steps back out into the garage and sees a small boy peering around the back of the pick-up. When the Old Man notices him, the boy immediately hides. He hears the shuffle of small feet scurry around the back of the truck and get quieter as they reach the back of the garage. The Old Man begins to walk towards the back when he hears someone behind him.

"What can I do ya fer, old-timer?"

The Old Man turns around and sees a tall, scrawny man standing in the doorway.

The man's southern-hick accent makes him hard to understand to begin with. Judging by the large rubber band still wrapped around his bicep, something else is taking a toll on his speech as well. The man drools all over himself and slurrs as he approaches the Old Man.

"Ya deaf? I'm talking to you."

Hello, my friend.

The Old Man looks up and removes his derby hat. One dead eye burns a hole through the Mechanic as the other looks upon him with kindness.

I was driving along and noticed my vehicle beginning to act up a bit. Conveniently enough, your service station just happened to be along the way. I was wondering if you wouldn't mind having a look.

The Mechanic spits a large string out onto the ground. His eyes nearly shut, he walks out of the garage and to the jet black vehicle parked outside.

"That new?"

Fairly.

"Hm. Must've been a pretty penny."

The Old Man smiles.

The Mechanic stumbles around the vehicle, catching one greasy hand on the front fender before falling forward. He stares blankly at nothing for a moment and picks himself back up. He walks over to the Old Man.

"A little busy at the moment. Already got one in the garage... Might take a couple days to get to it."

There are a few junk vehicles sitting around the outside of the service station. They obviously haven't moved in ages, they're rusted away and most of them were missing several key parts to run. The only mobile, working vehicle was obviously the truck in the garage. Judging by their current location, it's hard to believe the man and his boy walked to work today. Unless they were squatting in their own buidling.

It would be safe to assume the the truck was owned by the Mechanic.

All the time in the world. I am a very patient individual.

The Mechanic peers up at the Old Man.

"You ain't from around here?"

It's hard to call anywhere home, friend. I travel quite often.

The Mechanic spits again.

"Gonna need an advance... Twenty bucks, fer parts if I need 'em."

Understandable.

The Old Man pulls from his pocket two crisp ten dollar bills. He reaches out to the Mechanic.

The Mechanic's expression changes, he's a bit surprised the Old Man had no problem with the expensive down payment.

"Hm."

The sound of small footsteps can be heard from inside the garage again. The Mechanic sleepily looks around the Old Man. Suddenly a large crash and several wrenches and tools fall onto the ground.

A twinkle of life returns to the Mechanic's eyes as his face instantly turns red. He storms past the Old Man.

"Boy! What the fuck did I tell you about pissing around in here?! Get over here! Now!"

A small, skinny little boy ascends from the darkness from the corner of the garage and fearfully walks towards the Mechanic. The boys face is filthy with dirt and grime. His eyes are sunk in and darkened. Under the dirt and grime, the marks under his face are cleary cuts and bruises. He approaches the Mechanic like a guilty dog that knows it has wronged it's owner.

"I asked you a question!"

The boy can't be more the eight years old. He holds his hands together and shakes uncontrolably.

The Mechanic pulls back and back hand slaps the boy across the face. He falls to the ground and holds his face in pain. Not a single tear falls to his cheek, however. He stares blankly at the ground as the Mechanic reachs down and pulls him up by the back of his dirty tee shirt.

"I don't want to hear fuckin' sorry's neither! Pick that shit up and get ready. We're leaving soon."

The Old Man looks on as the small boy picks up all of the tools from the ground and places them in the clutter of tools from which they fell. The Mechanic approaches the Old Man again and nods to the back.

"Damn boy listens like his mother."

The Old Man smiles and continues to burn a hole through the man with his glare.

"Tell ya what I can do. Lemme get this truck outta here, I'll pull the car in and keep'r over night. It'll be my top priority since yer just passin' through."

Very well.

The Old Man reaches into his pocket and tosses the man the keys.

"This town isn't much for public transportation. I'd give ya a ride but the wife is coming for us and they're no room fer ya."

As the Mechanic finishes his sentence a large bus pulls into the service station. It pulls up to the single gas pump and stops. The door folds open and the driver shouts down to the two standing there.

"Any gas?"

The Mechanic stuffs the Old Man's keys into his pocket.

"All out."

The driver curses to himself and begins shutting door.

Excuse me, friend.

The driver looks at the Old Man.

I seem to be without a vehicle for the moment and according to this young man, there is a town but four miles in the direction you're going. Are you currently taking any passengers?

"Well, this is no bus stop, but I suppose I could help ya out. Hop on."

The Mechanic looks and snarks at the Old Man.

"Well, lucky you, huh."

I'll see you soon, my friend.

The Old Man steps onto the bus, the door folds shut, and they drive away.

The Mechanic watches the bus drive into the setting sun and walks into the garage. He pulls the over head door closed and pushes the latch to lock it. He snaps his fingers in the air.

"Boy!"

The sound of tiny feet shuffling from the other side of the building can be heard. The boy rushes over to the Mechanic and stands in attention.

"Get everything picked up?"

The boy nods aggressively.

"Good. Get your things, we're leavin'"

The boy rushes to the back room from the shop, grabs a small bag, and runs out of the station out into the lot. The Mechanic follows him and locks the worn, wooden door behind them. He approaches the jet black care and climbs inside, starting it up. He reaches over and unlocks the passanger side and the tiny boy climbs into the vehicle. The Mechanic reaches into his pocket and pulls a cigarette from a pack, lights it, and rolls down the driver's side window. He admires the car for a moment, and at the same time, notices no noises coming from the engine or anywhere for that matter. He puts the car in gear and drives away.

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The Widow spins the small pan of pot roast around 180 degrees in the oven. She waves her hands back and forth trying to wave off the burning, the dish towel she used to shield herself from the heat just didn't work well.

She hears the front door swing open and it nearly startles her as the young boy rushes in to her side. She kneels down and holds his filthy, disgusting face and kisses him on the forehead.

"I missed you."

The boy says nothing and reaches back in for another big hug.

The Mechanic slowly walks into the room, removes his filthy, button-up workshirt and tosses it onto the floor. The Widow kisses the small boy again and caresses a bruise on the side of his cheek.

"Go get washed up for dinner. It will be ready shortly."

The Widow looks up to the Mechanic.

"You're early. Dinner isn't quite ready yet..."

The Widow reaches down and picks the dirty work shirt up from the floor. As she stands back up she's met with the back of the Mechanic's hand across her face. She nearly expected it and managed to brace herself a bit for it. She closes her eyes. She's getting good at fighting away the tears. The tears didn't form from the pain. It was the fear. Not the fear for herself, but the fear for her son. The filthy little boy.

The Mechnaic is not her husband.

Her husband never came back from the war. The Mechanic's brother. Together they ran the service station that he currently takes care of on his own. After she received the letter, she broke down, and knew that she needed help. The Mechanic obliged and took over the family, and basically claimed everything for himself. The house. The station. The Widow... The son, he couldn't care less about. That was where her feared occupied. The fact the man that overshadows every moment of the boy's life, hates him.

The poor, filthy little boy doesn't remember his father. He was in the womb when he left. The only thing that he has are a few photoraphs of the man which left him nothing but his legacy. Which the Mechanic is currently doing very well at destroying.

"What did I tell you about making excuses? Are you saying it's my fault that your starving son isn't going to eat right away?"

"Of course not."

The Mechanic presses against her.

"I didn't think so."

The Mechanic stares at the Widow for several moments. She refuses to make eye contact with him as she looks out the corner of her eye at the little boy watching them through the banister from upstairs.

The Mechanic reaches around her and pulls a beer from the refridgerator. He makes his way into the living room area and sits on the couch. He nearly finishes the beer in one drink and sets it on the small table beside him. He reaches down and pulls a small metal box from under the couch. He unlocks it and sets it down. Several hypodermic needles, spoons, and little bags and viles are displaced throughout the box. He gets to work.

About a half hour later, the Widow walks in carrying a plate of food and sets it down in front of the small metal box the Mechanic placed there. She looks down at him. He lays motionless, mouth hanging open, drooling down the side of his chin. The rubber tourniquet still wrapped around his arm, needle still dangling from this inside of his elbow. She stares for a moment, a tiny tear forms in her eye... She shakes it away and walks back into the kitchen where the small, dirty little boy sits and eats his meal. She rubs the back of his scalp with her hand as he eats at a fast pace, trying to get done before the monster in the next room snaps out of his dream.

The Widow reaches into her apron pocket and pulls out a small card from it. She blankly stares at it for a moment before she hears a groan from the next room. She hurrily places the card back into her pocket. She looks in and sees the Mechanic still hasn't moved. She reaches back and pulls the small card back out and stares at it again.

"A friend in need..."

She reads to herself.

There is a short knock at the door.

She places the card on the table across from the boy and leaves the room. She approaches the door and cracks it open. Peering through the small opening, she sees an older man standing in front of her. He looks up at her, under his derby hat, and smiles.

"Can-- Can I help you?"

Hello, my dear.

"Can--- Ca--"

I'm afraid you probably cannot, ma'am.

The Widow looks at the Old Man concerned.

Perhaps, I... Could help... You.

The smell of something burning hits the Widow's nose and she whips her head behind her. A small flame burns atop the kitchen table across from the small boy. He sits and stares at it from his seat. She runs into the kitchen, grabs a small dish towel, and begins snuffing out the flame. It was the card she placed on the table that was burning. She looks around for a moment and stares at the boy who continues shoveling food into his mouth.

"Baby? Did you light mommy's card on fire?"

The boy shakes his head aggresively.

"Don't lie to me. I told you NOT to play around with fire! Give me the matches."

The boy stares blankly at his mother.

"Hurry up and finish. I want you in your room."

The Widow takes the remains of the card, which surprisingly didn't burn away, and throws it into the sink. She crumples it up under some cold water and disposes of it. She turns around and the boy is gone. She picks up his plate and begins walking back towards the sink. She realizes she left the Old Man standing at the front door and rushes back.

"I'm so sorry, I--"

She stops mid sentence as she cracks the door back open and sees no one.

"Who're you talkin' to?!"

The Mechanic stands in the doorway between the kitchen and living room, he holds his plate of food in one hand.

"Um. N- No one."

The Mechanic walks to the table and tosses the plate of food down onto it.

"My dinner is cold."

The Widow looks down and closes the door.

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The following day, the Mechanic wakes up to the sound of a loud bang sound coming from outside the door. He throws himself up from the couch and throws his entire peraphenalia collection back in the metal box, and places it back under the couch. He walks out the front door as he throws a shirt on.

Outside there's two men unloading several barrels of gas from the truck and placing them basically in the Mechanic's front yard.

"What the fuck is this?"

The two men look up at the Mechanic and pause. One of them walks over to the passenger side of the truck and pulls out a document.

"Delivering the fuel you ordered."

"To my house?! You fucking morons. It's supposed to go to my garage!"

The man looks down at the document and shakes his head.

"Not according to this."

He reaches out and hands the document to the Mechanic.

The Mechanic snatches the paper from the man's hand and reads his home address on the delivery slip.

"What. The. Fuck."

The man shrugs at the Mechanic.

"I don't know what to tell ya, pal."

The Mechanic gets ready to jump down the man's throat before the other drops a barrel from the truck and it rolls off. The Mechanic dodges the barrel as it rolls towards him and slams into the porch. Gasoline begins gushing from an opening.. The Mechanic and gas man rush over to it and pick it up.

The Mechanic, now covered in gasoline, swears at the two men for a while longer until he stomps into the house.

The Widow is standing in the kitchen washing a few of the dishes dirtied from the small boy's breakfast. She turns around to face the Mechanic.

"You smell like gas.."

"No shit. They fucked up! They brought a fuel order here, the dumb fucks. I have to run and get the truck to get this shit to the garage."

The Mechanic grabs the keys and heads out. The 1950 Chevy Fleetline starts up and the Mechanic drives away. The Widow sighs and looks at the four barrels of gasoline spread out through the yard. Any moment of peace she has to herself, she treasures. She walks into the living room, sits down on a chair, and rests her eyes for a moment.

After dozing off for a few minutes, she wakes up to the sound of a truck door slamming shut. She raises up from the chair and fixes herself... She looks down onto the table and sees another card sitting in front of her. On top of the card, are a small pack of matches. She reaches down and looks at the card. It's the same one that appeared in front of her before. She carried it around with her for days until it supposedly spontaneously combusted on the kitchen table. She places the card and the matches in the front pocket of her apron.

She peers out the window and sees the Mechanic approaching the front door again, still soaked in gasoline.

"You get me some clean clothes?"

The Widow sighs and looks away.

"You didn't say--"

The Mechanic reaches back and slaps the Widow to the ground.

"I'm covered in fucking gas, bitch. What the fuck? You're fucking worthless."

The Widow stays on her hands and knees for a moment. She fights back the tears and slowly stands back up only to be punched back to the ground.

"Why don't you just stay there. I do everything for you and that little shit upstairs and all you do is disrespect me. No more."

The Widow can't hold back tears any longer. She slowly picks herself back up again only to be shoved back down with the Mechanic's foot. He leaves the room and enters the kitchen. He stands by the sink and removes his shirt. He rings it out in the sink and splashes gasoline all over the floor and himself. He looks behind him and sees the woman standing in the door way.

"Back for more? Or did we learn our lesson?"

The Widow is silent.

"If you want forgiveness, I suggest you go find me a clean work shirt and some pants..."

The Widow reaches into her pocket and pulls out the pack of matches and holds them in a closed fist.

"What you got there?"

The Widow's fist clenches so tightly around the matches that it shakes uncontrollably. Suddenly, she feels a painful burning sensation coming from her hand.

She opens her hand and shutters as the entire pack of matches lit on fire. She panics for a moment and throws the matches out of her hand. The land in a small puddle of gasoline just below the Mechanic's feet and lights up. A trail of flame just a few feet from him work their way towards him very quickly and crawl up his leg. He begins screaming at the Widow and slapping his pant legs trying to put out the flames. He rushes after the Widow and grabs ahold of her and falls they both fall to the ground. The woman screams in agony as the rest of the Mechanic's body becomes engulfed in the flames. After a moment, the man's grip around her loosens and she's able to crawl away. Already severely burned, she crawls her way towards the front door, which is open. Standing by the street see sees the little boy staring into the house at her. She reaches out at him as the flames spread through the old house.

"Help."

She murmurs before putting her head down. She softly cries for a moment before screaming out. As her vision blurs she looks up again and sees the Old Man from the previous night standing beside the boy outside. They both watch as the house quickly becomes competely engulfed in flames.

Well. I suppose we should be going.

The Old Man reaches his hand out to the boy and he takes it.

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