I take the next exit, a small road that leads deeper into the desert, where there are no signs. No gas stations. Just empty land and the kind of rest stop that doesn't appear on maps. The ones truckers use when they want to sleep without being bothered, or where people meet up in secret to cheat on their spouses.
We park in the shade of a rock formation, hidden from the road. Dom turns off the engine and we get out of the van to stretch our limbs. I stand against the hood of the van, closing my eyes and letting the heat of the sun wash over my skin. Dom comes to stand next to me.
"How long do you think we have?" I ask.
"Before they connect us to the truck stop? Maybe a day, less if someone saw us leave."
"And the name-death plan?"
"Needs to happen faster than I thought." He runs a hand through his hair, and I notice the cut above his eyebrow again, along with the bruise forming on his jaw. The leftovers of Gary'sfight. I need to note it. I don’t have time to draw it, but I want to capture it so I can draw it later.
"I need my camera," I say.
Dom looks at me. "Now?"
"Now."
I climb into the back of the van and dig through my bag until I find it, my old Nikon, the one I've used for every piece of death I've documented since I was sixteen. The weight of it in my hands is nostalgic.
Dom watches as I set up, his expression unreadable.
"What are you doing?"
"What I always do." I adjust the lens, checking the light. "Documenting."
"I’m not sure that’s a good idea."
"This is how I process it." I look at him through the viewfinder. "You kill. I document. That's how this works."
He's quiet for a moment, then he nods.
"Okay."
I photograph his wounds first. The cut above his eyebrow, still raw and red. The bruises on his knuckles. The scrape on his jaw where Gary landed a hit. Each click of the shutter is meditative, pulling me deeper into the work. This isn't for the dark web or buyers.
This is for me.
Proof that we're existing. That everything we did was real and not a dream. That we crossed the line and came out the other side still breathing.
"Turn your head," I tell him.
He does and the beaming sunlight catches the angle of his jaw, the shadow under his cheekbone. He's beautiful in the way death is beautiful, stark and honest and impossible to look away from.
I photograph the van interior next. The rumpled blankets where we had sex after he killed Gary. The blood-stained shirt in the plastic bag. The cassette player withDisintegration Albumby The Cure still loaded inside.
Evidence of a life lived in the margins, of us. Dom moves closer, watching me work. "You're as fucked up as I am."
"Yep, and you love it.”
I lower the camera and look at him. He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, his touch gentle despite the blood still staining his hands.
"If they catch us,” he starts to say, but I place my finger on his lips.
"They won't." I set the camera down and hold onto his neck, lowering his face so he is level with mine. "Because we're going to leave. The new identities, we're doing it now. This week."
"That's not enough time."
"Then we make it enough time. There are always options. We will leave together one way or another."
