Vox Mentis

well, if you're not the Exception, then you're gonna die.
You aren't the Exception though, at least you don't think so. So you'll just have to pretend to be the Exception (until you can get somewhere safe)!

"I'm the Exception."

"Eighteen months ago, where did you live?"

"Broken Hill."

"Where in Broken Hill?"

A car blows by. "...Main Street."

"Oh for fuck's sake," says the tall man.

I mean, we said we weren't the guy; his friend said we weren't the guy. Tall man's the one who was so sure we were the guy he decided to fuck up our life and get at least three people killed. And now he's going to shoot us for not being the guy. So thanks for nothing, asshole.

The Exception? What the hell are you talking about?

"Look, nobody else thought I was the Exception either. I don't even know what the hell an Exception is. Tell me what you want. I don't know what you want."

The man sinks to his haunches. "You drive a Taurus. You've been in the States eight months. A year before that, you lived in Broken Hill. You had a dog."

You shiver.

A truck passes, wheels spitting road ice. "Not the Exception," says the man. He shakes his head. "Well, fuck."

You're not drugged up, so now you can get cheeky. Tell him that you may or may not be the exception, but you're certainly exceptional, then flash a shit-eating grin.

"I mean, I might not be the Exception, but my girlfriend always said I was exceptional. Before she fucking killed herself to stop you." You attempt a shit-eating grin, but it's hard.

The man stands. "Get up. Turn around."

"What?"

"You heard me."

You rise, cautiously.

"Turn."

You turn.

"Walk."

"Where?"

"It doesn't matter. Away from the road."

"Okay, let's think about this."

"You don't walk, I'll shoot you here."

"I'm not walking into the woods so you can shoot me there!"

"Fine," says the man, and there's a rustling, and you start walking. Your shoes sink into the snow. It's not more than ankle deep, but you make it look like it is. "Faster."

"I'm trying."

"I'm trying not to shoot you," says the man. "But it's getting fucking difficult."

You forge through deepening snow. Your mind is a great white expanse. A snowscape, devoid of plans that end with you alive.

"Veer right. You're trying to angle back to the road."

You veer. There are trees ahead, a thin stick forest. You're going to be shot in the woods. Your body will disappear beneath the snowfall. In the spring, you will be gnawed by foxes. You will be discovered by Boy Scouts and poked with sticks.

"Stop. This will do."

"Don't shoot me in the back!" You turn, fighting snow. The man is ten feet away, unreachable in drifts this deep. "Leave me here. I can't make it anywhere in a hurry. You can get away."

The man raises the shotgun butt to his shoulder.

"Don't shoot me in the face!"

The man exhales. "Fine. Turn around."

"Okay! Okay! Just let me..." You pull one foot out of the snow, put it down again. Your nose runs. "Motherfucker!"

"I'm shooting you in five seconds," the man says. "Arrange yourself however you like, pay your respects, whatever, between now and then."