Free Killing Time in Crystal City by Chris Lynch

That’s no trick and it’s no statement. Run, go and stay gone, that’s real.
    It’s decided then, this is true alone, pure and undiluted, as I walk with my key swinging circles around my finger and I turn the last corner onto Syd’s street.
    It took only twenty minutes this time.
    I turn the key in the lock, and of course my uncle Sydney has a well-oiled lock and the tumblers tumble all smooth and satisfying at my command.
    I get inside, where the gleaming clean and comfortable house welcomes me. All mine, all new, all real.
    All alone.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    I sleep just as soundly on my second night in my father’s brother’s house as I did on the first. There is nobody trying to wake me in the morning, either, nobody bellowing or kicking my door, nobody comically knocking on my forehead.
    So I wake gradually, listening to the birds outside my open window, hearing cars starting up for the morning commute. The weather outside already feels a little muggy, heavy on my tongue, although there is no sunshine to speak of.
    I could lie here all day. Nobody, anywhere, is expecting anything of me.
    There is a snap, and a thump at the front door and I jackknife up in the bed-sofa.
    Then, there is nothing.
    My heart rate quickens as I sit paralyzed for several seconds, realizing with quick clarity what I am living. I have restarted my life from scratch, new place, nobody knows me, and I know neither the place nor the people.
    And I’ve moved in with my uncle the crime lord.
    Jesus, anything could happen here. Why didn’t it occur to me that anything could happen here? Is this what it’s like being Sydney? Jumping up at every strange sound, never letting your guard down? Is this any way to live?
    I’m listening hard for any kind of follow-up, and I do wish the birds would shut up now. I wish the traffic would start winding down rather than up, but still there is enough quiet in there that I can work out that nothing more seems to be happening around Sydney’s front door.
    If I am going to choose my life for myself, from all possible lives, then I have got to start choosing rather than just letting it happen to me. My stomach is still swirling, my arms and legs all twitchy, and nobody has my back. Nobody.
    Is this what it’s like to be Syd?
    Is this any way to live?
    Anything could happen here.
    Hold on.
    Anything could happen here.
    That’s right. It’s all wide open now. Anything could happen.
    That’s what I came for.
    Is this what it’s like to be Syd? Of course not. Spend two minutes with the guy and you know he’s not cowering in bed over things that go bump in the full light of day.
    Is this any way to live? Of course it is, because it’s better than any other way I know, and specifically because anything could happen.
    I throw off my covers, and even though my heart has not stopped racing and I am already a little sweaty, I am not breaking stride, I am not backing up or slowing down, which is not the same as saying I have no fear of this lonesome unknown. It just means that I will go forward into it with my fear to keep me company.
    My hearty stride would actually probably look like a joke to somebody witnessing me now, but I don’t care because if I don’t stride I might stop.
    It’s a package. It’s come through the big, heavily sprung mail slot and fallen on the wood floor below, where it lies before me, in brown paper wrapping.
    Is this what a bomb looks like? I realize I have no idea what a bomb through the mail might look like. Is that the kind of thing that happens in Syd’s world, that people who want to get you get you with things stuffed through your letterbox? Does Syd have enemies and so therefore, do I have actual, honest-to-God enemies before I even have proper friends?
    Enemies? I actually smile for a second. Scary, but a shitload cooler than Kevin Shitbag ever had in Ass Bucket.
    Whatever it is, I