OOM: Russia

[spit_it_out]

He keeps heading north. As the world falls away behind him, everything else does too.

Somewhere in Russia, he gives the last of his money to a truck driver. They get in the lorry, and go. He speaks no Russian; the man speaks no English. That’s all right. He pulls his coat tighter around him, and tries to sleep.

Over the last few weeks, he has tried to rationalise himself out of this. He is a rational man. But the further he’s travelled, the more logic has left him.

He’s healthy. He’s not old. He has a remarkable brain. These are things a lot of men would be glad to have, and sometimes, it seems ridiculous to throw it away. But as soon as he thinks this, all the reasons why it’s hopeless rear up, and knock him squarely in the face. And why should he not? He has nothing left. He doesn’t believe in God. He doesn’t believe this can get better. Whenever he tells himself things could be worse – isn’t there an adage about someone always being worse off? – he remembers the blood pouring out of Betty’s head. It tells him different. And it’s not like he can shrug it off with she got better. Yes, she did, but others didn’t. He has killed people. And no matter what he does, he’s sure it’ll happen again.

He has the right – maybe the responsibility – to remove the problem.  He did this to himself; no one else should have to live in fear because of it.

Somewhere on the road, it became less a thought of it’s an option, and more it’s the only option. Perhaps the first time was when he picked up a gun in a hunting village, a few days ride from Moscow. At the first feel of it in his hand, his heart had sunk. Everything was so clear. All he has to look forward to is a life pursued by his own government. Hurting people without meaning to. And then a lonely death in the middle of nowhere, before getting swallowed by the Hulk completely. So, no. Better to rewrite the equation, minus his symbol.

His eyes won’t stay closed, so he stares at the snow lining the road. It’s almost like sleep.

Another day, then. A long walk into nowhere.

And then? Hopefully, no more running.