The story so far:
An old bell rang as the dingy, glass door swung open. The old man behind the counter set his magazine down and looked to see who was coming in.
"How can I help you, sir?" he asked, adjusting his glasses.
Dillan walked backwards through the door pulling a wheelchair with him. Ben sat gloomily in the chair but looked healthier than he had before. After the chair came through, it was turned and rolled to the counter. The old man gasped and tried hold his shock as he looked at them.
"We just need some gas and some snacks for the road." Dillan said with a grin. He was wearing a tropical printed shirt, khaki slacks, and aviators.
"Uh," the old man said, trying to keep his attention on Dillan, "just help yourself."
Dillan nearly skipped off down an aisle grabbing random bags of dried, processed food along the way. Ben was left in front of the counter. His eyes wandered over himself as he sat confined to the chair. There were only stubs were his hands used to be and his ankles still hurt. The memories constantly flooded his mind. It all happened after Dillan had killed Maria; he was told that they had to go. It made sense to him because there is nothing like a girl screaming, "Help me!", in your basement to get neighbors to start wondering about you. Dillan didn't bother to enlighten him of the details, though. Shortly after Maria's death, Dillan made enough eggs and hashbrowns for both of them and he spoon fed Ben. It was the first nourishment Ben had received in what must have been a week. He was relieved and even though he hated himself for it, he was a little thankful.
"Um," the old man started, looking at Ben with sympathy, "If you don't mind me asking, what happened to you?"
Ben looked at him but was interupted by Dillan popping around the corner. "He was in a car accident." Dillan said. "He got a little tipsy one night and wrapped his Honda around a tree."
The old man stared at him questioningly but simply said, "That's some bad luck there."
"Yeah," Dillan said, "it sure is but say, do you have any of those circus peanuts? You know, that candy that is kind of like styrofoam and tar mixed together."
Dillan and the old man carried on a conversation but Ben didn't care. It was hard to focus his thoughts right now. Not because of the pain but since he knew what life had in store for him in the near future. They were going to a new town that was just a few miles from this gas station; it was some other small town that he didn't bother to remember the name of. Dillan had told him before he lost his hands but it really didn't matter. That moment, though, was still vividly running through his head. Dillan had packed everything and before he took him down from the wall, he brought in an axe, an electric skillet, and a wheelchair. First, Dillan smashed his ankles with the backside of the axe. That was painful. Then, he properly used the axe to chop his hands off. That was excrutiating. Finally, he used the skillet to burn the wounds closed. That was hell. Ben had fainted from shock and woke up in a wheelchair in the back of a shitty old van.
"Alright," Dillan said, slapping the counter, "we're going to grab our gas and get out of here."
"You two take it easy." the old man said, taking one last look at Ben.
As Ben rolled through the doorway again, he remembered what Dillan had said before he started the torture. "You can yell and scream for help if you want to, Benny. I can't stop you and if you do, I'll be caught and sent to jail. And you'll be free. You'll have you're **** liberty but you'll be a worthless gimp the rest of your life. You'll always remember that I did it to you. So, when we hit the road, you can end this whenever you want or you can stay with me for just a little while longer."
And to Ben's own disgust, he was actually excited to see the art room.