"Mama, we all go to hell."
You don't listen though - you don't smile. You just continue to drive. I shift in my seat, eager to make a mildly human noise - and yawn. There's no response from you, and I struggle not to let the edges of my face drop into a frown.
"Mama we all go to hell…"
You frown, and some part of me rejoices in seeing any form of expression on your face; though another part of me dies, as you turn off the radio. I understand why you can't stand it, it hits too close to home. I face the landscape, and my reflection in the window, struggling to keep the tears in. The land here is much different than what I am used to. Growing up in New-England, you get used to the lush green everywhere, the rain and the snow, the constant moisture. The land here is nothing like that. It's barren, and desolate, dry, hot, and lonely, even in the cover of night.
The pattern of your breathing changes, and I turn. I can see you choking on the words, and feel my heart about to thump its way out of my chest. I don't want to listen - but I have to. I'd drink your words in even if they were laced with poison, and you know that. Your face twists - you're choosing your words carefully, and I smile some at that, because reading you is so easy now.
"Elizabeth…"
"Lis."
I correct you, my smile fading. You've known me long enough to know that nobody refers to my by my full name. I wait for you to say more - but I seem to have tied your tongue. You weren't planning on an interruption, and it threw you off course. That was the problem with you, really. You never planned for the unexpected, and never expected much to begin with. I put that thought away quickly, though. Because I didn't want to think about how you hadn't expected much out of me either - or how I was afraid that you was right not to.
The lights of the city come into view, and we're slowly swallowed by them. I can feel us drawing closer to our destination as the tension in the car rises, your discomfort becoming palpable. We pull up at the Phoenix Skyport airport, and you don't try to start again - don't look at me, as you hand me the plane tickets. I take them robotically - understanding now what you mean.
At some point, the door slams, and you drive off, leaving me drowning in a sea of people. But I understand, as I make my way numbly to the ticket desk. I have no possessions. I have no identity. I need to start over again, and you need to forget about me. You're not only leaving phoenix behind - you're leaving me behind, too. I stare at the works on my tickets blankly,
Forks.
The sigh I've been trying to suppress comes out, and the weight of truth makes it harder to breathe. You're sending me back to New-England. Back to the place I existed before I met you - before I knew anything, Before I came into myself. You're trying to erase any trace of me, and what I've become. Slumping in my seat on the plane, I don't try to comprehend anything. I'm tired - and I need to sleep. And that is what I am going to do. I can dwell on my confusion later. For now, though. I relish the silence of the early-morning flight, and the darkness behind my eyelids.
