The housekeeper brings her empty coffee mug to the sink.

She glances out the kitchen window and informs, "The cab's here, Mr. Bowman. Don't worry- I'll lock the house when I leave today."

I stand, collect my suitcase, and say, "Right. See you in a week, then."

She waves goodbye as I step out into the onslaught of rain and hurry into the cab. The driver coughs in an almost accusatory way.

"Where to?" He grumbles between more coughs.

I tell him the address of the airport, and he manages to urge the cab onward. I gaze through the window and out into the desolate landscape. The rain begins to pound harder as a bolt of lightning streaks between overladen clouds.

"Crappy weather, huh?" The driver remarks brutishly.

I remain silent as the thunder clap sounds.

The driver continues, "Where ya off to?"

I see him look in the rear view mirror and I'm tempted to reprimand him. I don't, though.

"Visiting a friend on the East Coast." I say instead.

He nods and takes one hand off the steering wheel to readjust his tattered baseball cap.

"That's pretty far." He states the obvious again, and it begins to annoy me.

I am not sure if it was the weather, the obnoxious company, or my recent train of thought, but I begin to remember another event. As the cab driver rattles on about some distant relative who happens to live on the East Coast, my mind wanders back to that night.

I lived in a small apartment with one other man: Courtney Hamish. Hamish was never an ideal roommate, but he wasn't entirely intolerable. The worst thing about him was his tendency to complain, especially when he complained after work.

"That raptor just snatched it from my hand! I swear, if he wasn’t that bosses’ son, I’d just- Hey! You listenin'?" Hamish wrung the newspaper in his hands in frustration. I tore my attention away from the rain pattering against the window.

"No." I grumbled in reply, "I'm just sick of your complaining. Your coworker can't be that bad."

Hamish then angrily said, "Easy for you to say- you're getting' rich off the McGinley's!" He gestured ambiguously with his hands while he talked.

Ignoring this comment, I asked, "How much does it cost to live in Cancun?"

Hamish was taken aback, "What, Cancun? The hell you talkin' about, Bowman!?"

"I was thinking Meg and I could run away together." I confessed.

Hamish stood, towering over me. "You still seein' that witch? I told you, she's bad news."

I stood, faced him, and said "She's not a witch." I began to pace around the room.

Hamish followed me like a shadow, almost yelling, "Even if she isn't, her husband's in the mob. She's bad news Bowman!"

I gritted my teeth in anger and growled a warning, "Mind your own business, Hamish."

He threw his hands up in frustration, saying, "It's your life." He opened our last beer and drank it noisily. Fed up, I decided to go for a walk. I left the entire apartment building behind and stormed through the rain pelting the streets outside. Lightning flashed between the dark clouds.

"Have a nice flight." The lady behind the counter smiles as I take my ticket and proceed. An agonizing hour-and-a-half later, I finally sit in the waiting area. I forgot how much I hate flying. My hand trembles as I hold my ticket. I still have many reservations about this whole ordeal. Too many what-ifs surface, and I almost give up and go home. I hold myself in that uncomfortable seat, though. I have come too far to turn back now. Despite Mr. McGinley's death, I still fear him. The sight of that revolver in his hand is too vivid, despite all the time that's passed. I take a deep breath and prepare to face my past.

It happened on a windy night. Meg and I met at our usual house. It shuddered around us, sheltering us from the oncoming storm. Like a fool, I thought it would shelter us from everything else as well.

I remember Meg was undressing. She smiled teasingly, letting her dress fall in one lovely motion, and beckoned me to the bed. Suddenly, a peculiar sound made us both pause. It was so slight that I thought it was just the wind or nothing at all. But Meg knew what it was right away: the sound of a car door slamming shut. Meg threw her bathrobe around herself and ran to the window.

"It's my husband!" She gasped in warning. I panicked, and threw my pants on, unsure of what else to do. Mr. McGinley burst into the house, yelling as loud as he could. When he found us upstairs, he threw me against the wall. I tried to stand, but he punched me back down. He struck again, and again, and again. My world became a swirl of pain and confusion. I tried to defend myself, but my paint flecked hands were useless. I struggled to run away, stumbling through the hall and down the entire flight of stairs. I looked desperately for anything to defend myself with, but I was utterly helpless against his assault. We somehow ended up in his study. Meg stood in the doorway, screaming. Mr. McGinley slapped her and said something I couldn't hear. I tried to stand, tried to defend her, but I could only sit in that spinning room, spitting out blood and a half-broken tooth. Then, Mr. McGinley grabbed his box, and opened it. Inside was a revolver. As he pointed it at me, my dizziness subsided. The real world made sense again, but my personal one continued to collapse on itself.

Mr. McGinley pressed the barrel of his revolver against my temple.

"I like you, so I'll give you one chance. One." All kindness had left his voice. Each syllable hissed harshly against my ears,, "Take the next train out of town, and never return. If I ever find you in town after sunrise, you're dead. Do you understand?"

I looked up at him as best as I could. There was no emotion in his eyes, only the cold mask of a professional killer. Only his blood streaked fist betrayed his true anger. I nodded.

"Good. Leave." He commanded, backing away while still pointing the revolver at my head.

I rose, grasping the desk for support. I looked past the revolver and Mr. McGinley, and found myself staring into Meg's tear brimmed eyes. A purple blotch spread across her perfect cheeks, swallowing all that had been good. I stood, shaking from the adrenaline rush, staring at that still angelic face. Then Mr. McGinley cocked that revolver and I bolted- ran out of that house and into the merciless wind. The only things left in my wake were Meg's hysterical sobs and the sound of the screen door banging repeatedly in the wind.

I clutched a suitcase full of my only belongings and looked around the carriage nervously. I was the only passenger on that last late-night train. The metal beast lurched and slowly began to pull me away from every dream I ever had. I gazed out the window and watched the station fall away. On a hill near the tracks I saw a line of headlights, each one silhouetting a figure standing in front of it. Although I couldn't identify any of those men, I instinctively knew Mr. McGinley was among them. I watched them until the headlights fused into one eerie light, shining in the distance.

I shift in the unnaturally small airplane seat, listening to the passenger next to me retell their entire life story.

"I was retired for twenty years, and then this chance came along." He excitedly explains, clapping his hands before continuing, "I finally get a chance of having the job I always wanted." I think about this for a minute.

"Don't you think it's too late in your life for a new start?" I ask.

The man beside me smiles, "No, it's never too late."

The hostess' voice sounds on the intercom. A wave of information washes over us as the other passengers settle around me. I click my seat belt and try to convince myself that I'm comfortable. The plane shakes and gathers speed until it finally breaks free of the tarmac. As I watch the landing strip fall away at a sickening angle, I think about the passengers words and hope they're true.