Page 61 - WTP VOl. X #3

wander, despite the growing physical discom- forts, or maybe because of them. Have to get out of here! Jerome stretched his legs forward and was overcome by a frantic scream. It was so sudden and all-consuming that in that moment there was nothing but pain, no ditch or heat or dust or rough feelings, just pain. Looking through the cascade
of tears, he was surprised that his legs looked ok aside from some shallow scrapes and cuts. The pain was pulsing from his left ankle. He couldn’t feel the foot below.
“Oh God,” he said in agony. I can’t walk on this. He had broken, or torn, or ruptured something. The flash of pain made his head hurt as well and forced him to breathe harder, the iron grip drawing tighter. That doctor training would’ve been helpful now. Jerome cursed the admission boards of several prominent, and a few not so prominent, medical schools, and then remembered that Mexico had 9-1-1. Although his iPhone’s screen guard had shattered at some point during the fall, Jerome was relieved to find that the actual screen was unblemished. Except, it had no service. No wi-fi signals to be found, nothing on LTE. He’d had service on the entire trip, with the excep- tion of the hour they spent in the jungle, the filming location for “Predator”, their guide boasted. It had been the final stop on the stupid bus tour Felix had dragged them on a few days prior. As far his phone was now concerned, a ditch, below the bay side high- way, not ten, fifteen minutes from a popular night- club, was as remote as the jungle. I am fucked.
He had to get himself out of the situation. He would need to slowly crawl since walking on his ankle was out of the question. Even being careful, he knew it was going to hurt. Pain was now inevitable. He took some slow breaths, which irritatingly brought him discomfort, but it was all he could do to calm down before starting to roll his body over, bringing the
right shoulder up carefully. This time it was his chest, erupting in a spasm of agony, forcing Jerome back
to his starting position, the pain being a barrier he immediately knew he couldn’t cross. A cold, prickly dread joined with the sudden realization that he could die in this ditch.
Panic engulfed him. He reached deep within for something, anything solid to steady himself. Logic, calmness, mature conviction in his own ability to deal with shit, anything that would help. But what Jerome pulled out from his own depths was unexpected.
“Our father, who thou in the heaven...hallowed is your...kingdom...give us daily bread and...forgive... forgive us the trespass...lead us not into temptation... deliver from evil...Our father, who art heaven...”
Through the tapestry of pain and fear, Jerome clung to the prayer. He hadn’t said it since he was young, eleven or twelve maybe. It had always sounded wrong coming out of his mouth during services at
the First Methodist Church. It was something he and his siblings had done for their mother, who had been constant but not overbearing in her faith. Their father was a non-believer and it was he who the children eventually rallied around. Without complaint or guilt- ing her wayward children, she continued to attend services, alone. Jerome had never sought any of that back, and yet laying in the ditch, desperate for help, the prayer had seemed to find him, continuously escaping from his lips in a desperate loop. He wasn’t sure if this was the right prayer for the occasion,
but it was the one he knew. You’re a fucking idiot, he thought but didn’t stop.
A deep, resonant sound cut through the night, pass- ing like ripples over his skin. Jerome went quiet. It wasn’t a random noise; he wasn’t sure, but thought it may have been a voice. His ears had recognized lan- guage. His heart, which had slowed somewhat during the frantic praying, started to pound now even more haphazardly. The tall grass across from him moved, stalks swaying violently before parting as a large shadow lumbered forward.
“Hell-hello?” He should have been happy to see an- other person, except he wasn’t fully sure that was what was emerging. It seemed to take definitive form as it drew into the low orange light, growing from
an ambiguous silhouette, tall and firm. “OH JESUS,” Jerome screamed despite the deep discomfort.
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