Jack · 6:00pm
The world was grey, under a wet blanket, and Jack was walking home. His long black hair was slick and wet, sticking to the back of his long-sleeved shirt. The teen shivered as he walked, his arms clutching at his sides. He'd forgotten to bring a coat.
He didn't consciously register his walking—he only knew because he was upright and moving. He'd lost the feeling in his feet long ago, after he'd thrown his shoes and socks to the side of the road. They'd been waterlogged and suffocating, but even their wet, choking hold: he would welcome that now.
Lightning flashed, it thundered, and he looked up and to his right. Only another half-kilometre, he thought to himself. Only another half. He thought no more until he turned down the path, and knocked on the front door.
As he waited for an answer, Jack turned around and looked out over the barren November fields. The long grass was dead, windswept, and bowing; bowing to the elements and ready to submit to the first snow. There wasn't another house in sight, but Jack could still remember one very clearly, along with its new lack of—he spun around, and banged on the door harder, begging for a reprieve from his recent sins. He was empty inside; he needed this nightmare to be over; he needed his half to wholly embrace him.
But after a few minutes of staring at the door, his eyes widened, his heart fell, and he realized she wasn't coming. He only noticed then that his pickup truck was gone. He would have called it stolen, if it wasn't for the fact that he'd never owned the keys in the first place. That girl had learned how to hotwire from the best of them. She was only another half.
Jack grimaced, and screamed through his teeth as he kicked in the chain screen with his numb bare feet. He crawled through the hole he'd made in the bottom half of the door, his sides feeling her protest. Despite his soaking form, she was barely even wet. But he made it through, putting more blood on his clothes in the process, and this time, it wasn't a stranger's.
He got up proudly, standing with a devilish grin on his face before walking over to the farmhouse's sitting room. He turned one dial, another, adjusted the rabbit ears, and sat down in the rickety wicker chair to watch the local news. He'd expected what he saw—an inner voice told him he should be hurrying, changing clothes to erase his trail, and disappearing into the dried cornstalks—but he felt no need to. He'd grown tired of it all, of running, of moving, of finding and chasing halves. Jack sighed, got up, and turned off the TV. He was ready to embrace the hole.