He came out of nowhere (Weekend freewrite)

Deep green sparks fell in the afternoon light, but Hank found himself more concerned with the man who no longer needed crutches. After taking a few wobbly steps, the man had collapsed into a heap and was now weeping with big fat tears you’d never expect to see on a grown-up face. And what a face - for Ron’s face bore all the signs of a hard and dangerous life - from the jagged scar that cut across his left cheek to the permanent frown between his eyebrows, which gave him the air of someone who is constantly pissed. The towering strong man wept like a child, cursing the cloaked stranger who had disappeared in a cloud of smoke, leaving behind a few bright sparks that had escaped from the tips of his fingers as he imparted upon us what must have been a sort of final blessing. For all his saintly air, Hank doubted he was in any way a holy man.
He didn’t believe in saints - or sorcerers for that matter. Nor was he a ghostly apparition, the empty beer bottles he’d left behind being proof that he drank like a real man. And a very thirsty one at that.
After a while the moans subsided and Ron pushed himself to a sitting position, staring at the dying sun.
Not knowing what to say, Hank busied himself with another beer, while trying to make sense of that most unusual day. A man hobbling along on crutches, all alone on a deserted country road was strange enough. The car dying out on him barely half an hour after he’d offered Ron a ride was unexpected, but, well, you could put that down to a weird coincidence. What was truly astonishing was the mystery man that came out of nowhere - they were in the middle of nowhere after all - and also seemed to know everything about him and the invalid. How? He never said. All the questions Hank asked were met with an unnerving knowing smile. Even the damn car, he seemed to know about that, too. ‘Not worth the effort’, he’d said gesturing to the car, as if he knew he’d stolen his father’s money to buy it and get away from that dump of a town.
‘I knew this day would come’, Ron said in a husky voice and a fresh round of tears started flowing from his red-rimmed eyes.

‘It’s hard to explain how I felt that day. Imagine yourself over the top of your home. Only like a toy house with no roof and you can see the neat little dolls going about their business in their neat little rooms, oblivious of your presence. I was still 30 miles from home and I could see Magdalene and that man in our bedroom. Literally, I could see his big hands taking off her pink bra, the one I’d bought her for her birthday, I could see him pushing her on the unmade bed. I couldn’t see his face, but I could see the love in her eyes.'
Ron broke off to clear his voice again and spit in the tall grass. Hank assumed the air of one who knows how things like that usually go - one or both of the adulterers dead, the pain, the guilt, the regrets.
‘It was the Devil, the guy we met tonight was the Devil himself. I knew I won’t get any absolution for my sins. I knew he’d stop me.’
‘The day I went to see Michael’s grave, the grave I put my sweet little boy in, I swore I’ll walk the whole world on those damned crutches until I find her and beg her to take my life, just like I took the life of our child that day’.
Hank was staring at the lunatic in front of him, trying to make sense of that crazy story. He wanted to ask about this child that just didn’t fit with the earlier story, he wanted to ask about the crutches, but on the other hand he’d rather not be dragged further into this story. A car was sure to pass at some point and he’d be out of there, leaving the scarred man and his useless crutches behind.
‘I’m not crazy. The doctor said I was cured of my delusions. He got everything figured out for me - how I was jealous of the boy that I thought had come between me and my wife, how I imagined the scene in the bedroom and shot the child sleeping by his mother’s side. Some sort of temporary insanity. I didn’t tell him about the Devil, though. I didn’t tell him about the hideous laughter I hear every time I close my eyes. And now he’s found me again and took my crutches away. No use looking for Magdalene now’.
Hank drew a sigh of relief as now the story began to make sense - just a poor delusional guy who probably didn’t need the crutches anyway. No mystery man, no miracle, no otherworldly apparition, probably too much beer on an empty stomach. And the guilt over his father’s money. Fuck him!

I’ve been thinking a lot about Ron lately. When I called to check in with him a couple of months ago, he told me he’d managed to get hold of his wife’s whereabouts, but didn’t have the guts to go over there or even call her. Calling her was out of the question anyway - after what he’d done to her you cannot dial her number and say ‘Hi’. He said he was doing well, that home he had found people were nice to him and he was free to come and go as he pleased. He kept the conversation light - ’tell me how you’ve been kid, how’s that novel of yours coming, make sure to send me a copy’. I barely could squeeze in a few words, let alone ask what I needed to ask.
I didn’t tell him that whenever I sit down to write the most horrible pictures come into my head. I don’t recognize any of them as my own ideas, but they must be from my head - how else would they end up on the paper. Sometimes it’s shaky and uneven, but I know that’s my handwriting all right. Like the story of the girl buried alive in a shallow grave, clawing her way out, nails broken to the bloody bones and when she finally feels a breath of fresh air the cackling witch pushes her back, buried again. I was sick to my stomach when I read the story the next day. I couldn’t tell Hank that, but I feel I’m losing my mind.
I didn’t tell him about my father either. Heart-attack, one month after I left. He laid dead for a week in his backyard before they found him. I didn’t go to the funeral. My sister wouldn’t have me set foot inside the house, she says I broke his heart, but she doesn’t know what she’s talking about. I could tell she didn’t know about the money. The old man never told her, I guess.
Maybe I could give Hank another call. I could drive up to see him. There’s things I need to ask. I must know if the laughter ever stops.

Story written for @mariannewest's freewrite challenge, the weekend special edition! Check out her blog and join our freewrite community.

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