Escaping Heaven Read Online Free

so-called best friend’s car in one of the guest parking spots out in the apartment building’s lot, but the rage passed as quickly as it arrived. For the most part he didn’t feel anything at all. He wondered if he should attribute it to shock or whether he truly didn’t give a shit right now.
    His best friend, his fiancée… they were part of the whole wasted life he needed to get rid of. He needed to kill the old him and start a new one. It was something he had to do; he could see that now. That isn’t to say it didn’t hurt – it stung like hell. But really, he felt like he should’ve seen this coming a long time ago. His fiancée, his ex -fiancée, had always been trying to change things about him, make him into whatever it was she really wanted, which clearly wasn’t him. Maybe she wanted him to piss off her parents, or his stability, or his dependability, or whatever it was she felt like her life was missing. It certainly hadn’t been the sex; that much was clear. Maybe his best friend was filling her sexual needs and he was filling everything else. He would need to change all of his bank accounts, his credit cards, everything that had her name on it next to his.
    He looked at his car and sighed, terrified that it wouldn’t turn over. Fortunately, his Chevy Nova started up fine this time. Perhaps it was thankful that it would no longer have to hear his fiancée, his ex-fiancée, bitch about how he should replace it.  He would have except getting the money together had been a bit of a challenge. The behemoth rumbled out into the street and Jake decided to turn on the radio to try and take his mind off of things. Suddenly, The Beatles began blaring “All You Need Is Love” out of the speakers. The radio, it seemed, had no such loyalties. Jake’s eyes rolled closed again and he drew in a deep breath, reaching over to turn the knob and turn the radio off. It snapped off in his hand. Jake paused, nodded a bit to himself acceptingly (as if this was the only possible thing that could have happened when he turned on the radio), then pulled the car over to the side of the road in front of an elderly rest home, leaving the car running as he got out.
    As a dozen senior citizens watched from their porch stoop, Jake moved back, opened his trunk, pulled out his tire iron, slammed his trunk, moved back to his car and smashed in his radio. He swung that tire iron three or four times to bash in the radio until it stopped making any sound. There was a squelch at the first strike, as if protesting the abuse, before it fell deathly silent as Jake’s last few blows crushed it in. He tossed the tire iron on the seat next to him as he sat back in the driver’s seat and lifted a hand up to wave to the senior citizens, who were staring at him in mild shock. At the sign of the wave, though, their automatic reactions kicked in, and they waved back on pure reflex. He started up his car and continued along his way.
    He maneuvered the car through the streets, pulling into a fast food joint. He needed some kind of lunch, and he didn’t particularly feel like cooking. He moved inside and joined the long queue, the line that would not die, the never-ending line. It looked like there were only a dozen or so people in line, but he could practically feel the hours melting away as he stood there, motionless. After what seemed like an eternity, one person moved. Then another. Jake felt as though that by the time he got to the counter, food itself would be obsolete. Eventually, he got to the counter and a man whose nametag featured only a random assortment of lines and was of an unfathomable background looked at him with a gaze of unrecognition. He spoke to Jake in a language he wasn’t familiar with, but the blur of constants and vowels sounded vaguely like “Hap flu?” Much of the man’s face was covered by a shock of black hair, or by a pair of giant coke-bottle glasses, and the rest was covered by acne, which also had acne on