Crunching the cigarette out under his boots, Tommy easily imagined the look of disapproval on Julia’s face. He’d seen it so many times that he could still draw it in his sleep. She’d wrinkle her nose at the smell of smoke, just like always. He’d seen his fill of that as well. It was those looks of disdain that had made him realize part of him had come to hate her.
But he always treasured the calm that smoking brought. He didn’t know if it was nicotine or simply the inhaling and exhaling. He just knew it always helped him feel centered. Today was a day he needed to feel centered. He had picked this place because it was where they had first met. Once upon a time—a lifetime ago.
As far as parks went, it wasn’t a stellar representation of its kind. Other parks would look at it the way Julia looked at him now. A few scraggly trees, a small brown patch of grass, and a water fountain that had no water; this was the totality of its allure. All this grandeur was taken in from a stark metal park bench that was as uncomfortable as it sounded.
He had only stumbled upon the place while looking for somewhere to smoke one day. Just that one day. He had picked it now because he knew it would hurt her to be here. Yes, he was that petty; and yes, he was okay with that. She’d be here; he was as sure of that as he was that it would be the last time they ever spoke. He had never reached out to her before. For that alone, she would come.
Tommy was pretty sure Julia had expected exactly the opposite of what he gave her. That wasn’t very smart on her part. The demise of their relationship had been rooted in the fact that he was the opposite of the person she thought he had been. No, he had never revealed his drug problem to her; and no, he wasn’t okay with that. But it never excused the fact that she had cheated on him, either. She believed that marked the end of them, and he wouldn’t be surprised if she still carried the guilt around with her.
Her betrayal hadn’t ended a relationship that had been built upon smoke and mirrors. It had, however, forever changed how he looked at her as a person. He may have been a goddamn liar, but he wasn’t a fucking cheat.
The sound of her heels clicking on the pavement announced her arrival. He didn’t turn to watch her approach. He steeled himself, preparing for the war to come. No matter how much he tried, he knew he would say something hurtful. It was who he was. He ignored the hunger that suddenly and violently tried to overwhelm him. It was that hunger that got him into this mess in the first place. Composure gained; he turned to face her.
“Are you dying?” she asked. Not the greeting he was expecting, but a fair one.
“Maybe,” he said. “You look good.” It was true.
“So do you.” It was not. He had seen better days.
“Look, I’d like to make this quick.” All business. She must’ve been having a hard time with this. So was he. The hunger began again, stronger this time, and he knew the meeting would go faster than planned. He was usually good at managing it, good enough to be a ‘functioning’ addict. But her very presence was rapidly breaking down those walls.
“I’m in trouble,” he said.
“How much do you need?” she asked, and it hurt him, though it shouldn’t have.
“I’m not looking for a goddamn handout.”
“Then what are you looking for?” she asked.
“A chance to say good-bye.” That stopped her. She hadn’t expected it. She studied the pathetic trees for a moment and then returned her gaze to him.
“Closure,” she said. “You cut me off completely. You refused to speak to me. You quit acknowledging that I even existed.”
“I—”
“And now you want some closure.” She looked away, then back again. “Look. We both know the reason I came. But I absolutely refuse to rehash our old arguments. I don’t have that in me anymore.” Her voice was tired. “I’m here to help you out here and now, and if you come at me with anything else, I’m leaving.” She was in control.
“I lost the fight.” She knew what that meant. He was going to say more, but maybe he didn’t have it in him anymore either.
“I asked how much—”
“It isn’t money that I owe. It’s a favor.” A favor for the kind of guy no one wanted to owe anything to.
“A ‘favor,’ huh?” The look of disdain he had dreaded made its appearance. He really wished it hadn’t. “I can figure out what sort of ‘favor’ it is.” She was trying to remain in control, this time of herself. “Are they worth it?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. They had cost him everything else, but part of him still believed it had been a fair trade—or else he wouldn’t be where he was.
“You don’t know,” she repeated, now visibly angry.
“I’m not here for this,” he said, though he wasn’t so sure.
“Then why are we here?” she challenged.
“I told you. I wanted to say good-bye.” That, at least, he was sure of.
“Why?”
“I told you why.”
“No, I mean why do it?” Her eyes locked on him. “If it’s so risky that you’d seek me out, then why do it?”
“Why, why, why!” he snapped. “Because I have to! Because I don’t have a fucking choice!”
“Don’t you?” she asked, calm and infuriatingly collected.
“If you know the answer, why don’t you save us both the trouble and just tell me!”
“Why don’t you just run away?” That stopped him.
“What?”
“Run away from the problem. It’s what you’re best at.” That hurt.
“What are you talking about?” he asked, though he knew.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about!” Her composure cracked, and her voice rose with each word. “You ran from life to drugs. You ran from drugs to me. When things got hard, you ran right back to the drugs!”
He wasn’t going to stand there and let her judge him.
“You don’t—”
“This isn’t about me!” she shouted, now shaking. That stopped him again. “This is about you! Now is when you decide to take responsibility for your actions? Not for yourself, not for me—but for a fucking drug dealer!?” She was insulted to her core. She turned away so he couldn’t see her cry.
The silence stretched on. When she turned back, the anger and tears were gone.
“So, I ask again, why do this at all? Run. Just run.” Her voice was even again, steady. “Good-bye.” She kissed him coldly on the cheek.
“Good-bye,” he echoed, watching her walk away. When she was halfway across the park, he spoke one last time.
“Try not to fuck anybody on the way home.” Her whole body jerked, but she kept walking. That hurt her. A lot. But there was no way he was going to let her win. He wasn’t sure how he felt about it all, but the hollow inside let him know that soon, he wouldn’t be feeling anything.
The car smelled of used cigarettes and half-eaten meals. At some point, mice must’ve thought food was hiding in the upholstery and went digging. Though the paint was now varying shades of rust, there were no broken mirrors or lights. Under all the grime, the engine still ran smoothly. It was a good getaway car—non-descript but reliable.
Tommy glanced at the interior analog clock for the thousandth time and failed to stifle the feelings of impatience and hunger. Time barely moved. Maybe he’d been moving backward his whole life. Maybe it was the gun. He shifted, trying to readjust it, though it didn’t help.
Guns made him uncomfortable—not philosophically, but physically. No one ever talked about how heavy they were. This one felt like a paperweight under his armpit, dragging down his soul. The shoulder holster felt obvious, like he wore a sign that said, “I have a gun!” But tucking it into his waistband wasn’t an option either—not while sitting.
He looked into the rearview mirror and saw eyes full of unease. Normally in situations like this, he felt numb. Not calm—numb. That numbness had always been his escape, whether he was lying to someone he cared about or mugging someone to fund a binge. It let him distance himself from his actions. It made him capable of being a low-life.
The big downside? That numbness destroyed everything it touched.
He looked away from the clock. The alley offered little in the way of distractions. Trash surrounded him. A hazard of the lifestyle. That included his ‘partner’ in this exercise—a man who looked, smelled, and acted like the alley was his home. Their conversation consisted of grunts and shrugs. His eyes said he was soulless. A junkie husk—perfect muscle for dealers.
Tommy’s job was to deliver this guy to the backdoor of the unmarked warehouse, owned by who-knows-who, for who-knows-what. And then drive. That’s it. The less he knew, the better. What he did know scared him enough. He was supposed to be the driver. Just a ghost behind the wheel. But part of him suspected it wasn’t just a ride.
He glanced at the clock again. Still not even a full minute passed. It was like an itch inside his brain. He tried focusing.
But then something hit him.
She was right.
That feeling in his gut—it wasn’t just nerves. It was instinct. It started the moment he saw the man beside him. That man was the bottom. The reflection stirred memories of Julia’s words: “Run. Just run.”
The guy he owed wasn’t a mafia don. Just a dealer. Once Tommy was out of town, he’d be off the radar. He’d always find another dealer. They were everywhere.
So why was he still here?
Because he always ran. That’s what he did. Even when he loved someone—like Julia—it wasn’t enough to stop him.
What was the difference now?
Maybe nothing. Maybe he was here merely on autopilot.
He glanced at the empty passenger seat. A chill ran down his spine.
Run. Just run.
He should. He could.
Tommy pushed open the car door with his shoulder. When the gun hit the bottom of the nearby garbage bin with a clang, the sound echoed like a bell in his head—signaling the end of his indecision. He re-entered the vehicle, calm at last.
He didn’t think of the look on the junkie’s face when he came back to a missing car. He didn’t imagine Julia’s satisfied smile if she knew. He just drove off, numb to the world.
Tommy didn’t know where he was going.
The car windows were cracked just enough to let the smoke and rot escape. The city slid past him like a memory he was trying to forget—graffiti-scabbed walls, broken-glass sidewalks, faces staring too long at nothing. A broken world of zombies without an apocalypse.
He found a non-descript gas station on the outskirts of town and pulled in. The tank was almost empty, and he really needed a pause. The hunger was coming back, curling up from the pit of his stomach to the back of his throat. Soon it would tighten its hold, and he would find it hard to even breathe.
He killed the engine and sat there, gripping the wheel like it was the only thing tethering him to reality. He fervently regretted his decision, hoping that the rust bucket would start again when he turned the screwdriver. He sat there for a few moments, forcing his nerves to steady.
Inside the station’s convenience store, fluorescent lights buzzed and flicked overhead like fireflies. The air stank of old coffee and diesel fumes. The place was as empty as the hole that was steadily threatening to swallow him up. He grabbed a pack of cigarettes, a cheap sandwich, and a black coffee in a styrofoam cup. The pimply faced clerk wordlessly checked him out.
Back in the car, he lit up. Inhaled. Exhaled. Almost calm again. He could do this. Breathe in. Breathe out. His phone buzzed. His breath caught in his throat.
Unknown number. He stared at it, thumb hovering.
It buzzed again. Then stopped. So did his heart. A text appeared a second later:
“You were supposed to wait.”
He swallowed hard. No name. No number. Just the message. His chest tightened. He hadn’t told anyone where he was going. Hadn’t told anyone what he’d been asked to do. There were only two people who knew, and Julia was never going to contact him again.
He tossed the phone onto the passenger seat, then immediately regretted it. He picked it up again, unlocked it. No more messages. Just silence. How did they get his number? Had his miasma of drug induced haze blinded him to the severity of his situation?
Then a set of headlights pulled into the gas station. Then another. He put out his cigarette and stuffed the sandwich into his pocket. A third set. Praying to gods he never believed in, he cranked the screwdriver. The beast sprang to life. It took everything that he could muster to pull slowly out of the parking lot.
As soon as he hit the highway, he floored the rust bucket for all its worth. The balding tires struggled to find purchase as the car careened recklessly. Tommy looked in the rearview mirror, and as he had been doing his whole life, he ran.
The minutes stretched into miles. Though no one followed him, his paranoia grew. The text haunted him—he realized the “favor” wasn’t just a drop-off. They had wanted him dead. The junkie in the alley must have had his own mission. Tommy wasn’t supposed to have lived through it.
He screwed over just about everyone he had contact with in life, so he wasn’t exactly surprised.
His thoughts scattered to the wind when his phone buzzed. Adrenaline, anxiety and doom coalesced; a man awaiting his execution. Then the phone buzzed again. Unknown number. A long pause that lasted for eons. He picked up the phone. It buzzed one final time. One photo. One sentence.
The photo: Julia, gagged, bound to a chair—eyes wide, terrified.
The sentence:
“You were supposed to wait.”
Tommy dropped the phone. The car veered violently to the side as he the world collapsed around him. He struggled to regain control of both the vehicle and himself. The tires screeched and shrieked as he slammed on the brakes and pulled over to the shoulder. Breathlessly, disbelievingly he stared at the discarded phone. What had he done?
She had warned him. Told him to run. But she didn’t mean from her. She was trying to save me. And he’d dragged her into it instead. That described their entire relationship. She always tried to save him from himself, he always dragged her through the shit. All his life, Tommy had made decisions to escape pain, to avoid blame. This one would be different.
The car peeled back onto the road in a cloud of dust and burnt rubber, back the way it had come from.
The warehouse looked the same as before. Like it had been abandoned by time, left to rot alongside the only kind of people who had a use for it. Tommy’s car idled down the alley, headlights off, engine rumbling like a dying animal. He parked crooked, stepped out into the dark, and immediately felt the city lean in around him.
He found the trash bin without hesitation. The gun was still there in the murky depth. Wet, cold, but intact. He wiped it off with his sleeve and held it like he meant it this time. Earlier he only felt the burden of it. Now as he disabled the safety, he only felt intention and surety. No more running.
The door to the warehouse creaked open, groaning like a warning. He stepped inside, slow, careful, listening to every echo. His breath came shallow. He felt the blood pounding in his head. His hands were shaking, not from fear but from withdrawal—or maybe both. He inched forward, desperate to make as little sound as possible.
The interior was dim and dusty. Only a few dusty skylights let the moonlight through. Machinery skeletons cast long shadows across the dirty floors. He peered further into the depths. In the center of the warehouse, surrounded by piles of empty decaying boxes, she sat.
Julia.
Tied to a steel chair. Bloody lip. Wrists bound tight. Still fighting, though—he could see it in her eyes. As she silently struggled against her bonds, and in stark contrast to the ugliness he had brought into her life; she was fucking beautiful.
And standing behind her—was him.
The junkie. The same homeless man from before. But now, Tommy saw him clearly. Not just a strung-out shell. There was primal intelligence there. Malice. The wild look of someone who had nothing left to lose—and enjoyed the freedom of it. Well, Tommy didn’t have shit to lose either.
“You came back,” the man grunted, grinning toothlessly. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”
“I didn’t come to talk,” Tommy replied. He raised the gun. “Let her go.”
“Isn’t that sweet.” The junkie’s voice broke and cracked. “She’s prettier than most, I’ll give ya that. But I have my orders.”
The man pulled his own weapon from his coat—a heavy revolver, older than both of them. “Now,” he said. “Let’s see what you’re made of.”
There was no more clever exchange. No standoff monologue. Just the sharp bark of two gunshots tearing through the silence. Two flashes briefly illuminated the dark void in the warehouse. Julia screamed through her gag.
Tommy staggered. He felt a weight slam through his shoulder, heat blooming across his chest, spreading fast. It felt like he was being tattooed from the inside out. The gun clattered from his hand as he stumbled forward. He fell to one knee, blood spilling from him like oil from a cracked engine.
The junkie dropped, gurgling, desperately clawing at the hole in his throat.
Julia was still screaming, trying to free herself. He crawled to her, hands soaked, breath ragged.
“I got you,” he whispered. “I got you.” He weakly fumbled with the rope before collapsing, but it was enough for her to free herself.
Her hands were on his face now. Warm. Desperate. Real. But he was already slipping. Not from pain. Not from fear. Just… slipping.
“I didn’t run,” he croaked out, a faint smile twitching across cracked lips. “Not this time.”
“You saved me,” she said.
“No,” he whispered. “You saved me.”
His last breath was soft. Not like the last drag of a cigarette—more like the wind that carries it away.
Weeks later, Julia stood alone at the edge of the same park bench where they first met. The trees were still sickly. The fountain still dry. She lit a cigarette—her first in years—and let the smoke curl into the sky.
“I told you to run,” she whispered to the wind. She took one last drag, eyes fixed on the horizon.
But she knew now that he hadn’t. Not when it mattered.
[Image Credit : Photo by Hayk Badalyan on Unsplash]
by 
Daniel Mahoney
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