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It didn’t matter where he went. There was nothing left for him anywhere. Fargo was torn down, Malvo would disappear. Numbers was…
Numbers was gone.
Wrench was unsure of what brought him to actually turn the key in the handcuff lock; self-perseverance he guessed. Numbers would have wanted him to get out of there. Get out of there and go do all the things they said they were going to do on cold nights, huddled under the blankets.
But it’s not that easy. His body groans and protests as he rips out IV tubes and forces himself into clothes that he doesn’t want to put on. He’d rather just lie down in the bed and never move again. But he’s got to get going. The morphine would wear off soon and the body that Malvo probably dropped would be found soon enough. And they would more than likely pin that on Wrench.
He had to disappear now or never. This was his only chance.
His body sags in the front seat of a stolen vehicle miles away from Duluth. His whole being hurts. Not just the wounds, but his head, his legs, his heart. They all throb and ache in time with each other and it’s a miracle he pushes through to the next town. He has to keep going, get as far away from the hospital as possible.
The hospital that holds his partners body that he’ll never see again; can’t even bring home to bury.
Home. Where even was home? Not the shit motels they stayed in or the tiny apartment they shared when there was down time; it only had a bed and table and a TV. They had no personal belongings that they didn’t carry on them.
No. Home was where ever Numbers was. Home was when they were together. Home was the bed that they shared at night, their bodies pressed together for heat and comfort. Home was the way Numbers smiled despite being annoyed by the things Wrench does. Home was Numbers’s hands, the beautiful hands that he signed “I love you” with, holding Wrench’s while they sit in contented silence.
No. Home was dead now.
He drives.
And drives.
Until he can’t drive anymore; needs gas and food and sleep.
The first thing he buys at the store is a notebook and pen.
Checking into a motel and getting food and doing things without his interpreter is hard. But trying to live without his partner is even harder.
The small comfort of the bed and a full stomach does nothing to help Wrench. His heartache nearly consumes him; the wound in his side does the rest of the job. He feels lost, empty, yet so full of grief and guilt that he could burst at the seams any moment.
He turns on his side and sees the empty bed across from his. His throat swells as a lump rises, his eyes sting as they threaten tears.
“I’m sorry,” he signs in the dark. It’s not enough. It’ll never be enough. It won’t bring him back no matter how many times he signs it and begs it and pleads to wake up from the nightmare he’s now living.
It’s the worst thing that could have happened.
And it’s his fault.
He doesn’t even know exactly what or how it happened, but he knows he’s to blame. His soul burns with guilt and it sits heavy underneath the pain.
“I’m sorry.”
He sleeps through the entire day, disregarding the fear that he might be traced here. Let them come. At least he’d tried.
But no one comes for him and he leaves in the dead of night. He drives on for hours before he finally decides to head north. Maybe he’ll cross the border into Canada, disappear into the mountains.
Numbers always wanted to move somewhere south. Somewhere warm where he could forgo wearing heavy coats for months on end. But Wrench can’t stomach the idea of seeing the beaches of California or Mexico without his partner.
So he drives deeper into the cold; it never bothered him and he’d never feel warm again without his partner now.
Wrench ditches the car he stole and rides a bus into town. He gets off at the bank and withdraws all their money, ignoring the odd looks he gets from the clerk. He cleans them out of most of their cash. It’s all of his and Numbers’s retirement funds.
He steals another car and drives it into the next town before he checks into a motel again. His side is screaming for him to stretch out and take off the pressure. He doesn’t care; the corporeal pain is easier to focus on than the void in himself.
He ditches the car miles before the border. He slips into Canada with relative ease. He’s unsure of where to go from here. For a moment he leans against a tree in the foreign country, feeling irrevocably lost; broken. The snow is coming down in thick, giant flakes, coating the world in white. It reminds him of the blizzard he’d lost his partner in and for a moment he thinks about lying down and falling asleep in the snow. It’d be so easy to do with the amount of misery he’s in.
But after a long time of staring into nothingness, his foot finally takes a step forward and he begins to walk. Wrench finds a parking lot several miles away from the border and steals another car. He drives it into the woods before falling asleep in the backseat.
In the morning he finds a bank to exchange his money. He’s getting sick of having to write everything down and try to communicate the way he did before he’d met Numbers.
Wrench slips half the money in his wallet, the other half into the inside of his jacket. He finds a local newspaper and searches for real estate. He finds a small one bedroom cabin that’s a few hours out in the wilderness a day or two away from here. It’s almost perfect.
But nothing ever can be, now. Not without Numbers.
Wrench has to write down his request and ask three strangers for help. It’s not like he can call and set the appointment up himself without a relay service. Eventually someone takes pity on him and politely phones the person in question.
Wrench hands over money without even saying anything to the man selling the cabin. He doesn’t need the tour or anything. He just needs a place to live.
Though this can never be home, it’ll have to suffice for now.
A year passes slowly and without enjoyment. Wrench goes into town to buy supplies the first Saturday of the month with a truck he bought and rebuilt. He shoots his own game throughout the year, cuts his own firewood and grows vegetables in the warmer months. The television goes out all the time, but Wrench rarely watches it. A small fire is always burning in the fireplace. Most nights something is heating in the crockpot. Wrench finds a routine and slips into it. He keeps to himself, lives by himself, and becomes irreversibly hollow.
There’s no sense in trying to build relationships with anyone. They can’t compare to Numbers and they would never measure up.
It’s not easy to live, each day is a constant reminder that he’s alone.
But he takes it one step at a time, reminds him that it’s the only thing left that he can do for his partner now.
It still never stops the guilt from gnawing him as raw as the harsh winter wind.