1 Illusions
In the beginning, it had been wonderful. Easy, too. He had made it easy, and she had followed without looking back. No regrets.
The freedom she had felt was unbelievable. Knowing that the lies were over, the stress was gone, was unbelievable. To her, anything was worth having that. No price was too high (what is life without independence?).
Now, she wasn't so sure.
In the beginning, she was angry, naïve, restless. He was solid, strong, new – different from everything else in her life. He woke up feelings in her she had forgotten existed. He gave her the strength and reassurance she needed. She gave him the excitement he craved. But it wasn't enough for him. He convinced her that it wasn't enough for her, either.
For a long time, she had been miserable (since eternity). The lies, the death, the blood, it hunted her, followed her, embedded itself under her skin, and she couldn't get it out. She couldn't escape it. (they would kill her, one day). Knives flashed through her dreams, and voices echoed in her nightmares. She grew to hate her life, and she wanted out. But she never thought her dream could become reality.
At least, not until she met him.
It had been a warm spring day, and they had collided at a park. She knew as soon as she looked at him that she needed him. He would be her salvation.
He would set her free.
Perhaps they weren't meant to be; maybe she needed something (anything) so badly that she made him something he was not (never would be). But all that was irrelevant now; what was done was done.
They had only known each other a few days when she told him the truth. Told him how much she wanted freedom, craved it. She knew it was stupid and crazy (fatal). But she wanted to taste life the way he tasted it. She wanted to be normal (what is normal?). He told her he could give her freedom. She had laughed – can you buy freedom? No, he replied, you can steal it.
So they did. It was quick, easy, painless. Blond hair dye, choppy cut, green contacts, and lots of self-tanner. A large birth mark on her left cheek, and a trip to his "friend" for new identification. He had wanted the Carribbean, she had wanted Peru. They settled on Morocco. No one would know them there, she rationalized, and they could be safe for a few days (never more).
In the beginning, it was wonderful. She was a new person, inside and out. She tried everything new she could – they moved when they felt like it (when they had to), stayed where they wanted to (run-down shacks that no one but locals knew about). Odd jobs here and there kept a minimal amount of food in their stomachs. She enjoyed the nomadic life. Or rather, she convinced herself that she did (illusions).
It couldn't have lasted long. She had known that. The inevitable approached – the discontent, the anger, the realization that she couldn't go back. (the gunshot).
And so the excitement wore off, laying bare the life they led. She had craved normalcy, freedom – what she had gotten was far from it. The roach-infested cot she slept on was not normal. The constant moving was far from average. Her painfully thin body with its glaringly protruding ribs was hardly ordinary. The running, the hiding, was not freedom.
He was not her salvation.
The knowledge came to her slowly one night, as she lay on her dirty cot and looked up at the sky through the holes in the roof. She didn't want this. She didn't want him (she wanted the one she had left behind). She was living in a world of lies (illusions), and if she wasn't careful, it would all come crumbling down around her.
To hell with being careful.
So she left. She took the contacts out and cut her hair close to her scalp with her dirty knife, all the way to her brown roots. Her ratty t- shirt and torn shorts would have to stay, as she had no money for anything else (she didn't care). Walking out of the half-collapsed shed, feeling the Moroccan dirt beneath her bare feet and the distant stars bearing down on her with their cold judgment, she realized she had nowhere to go.
For lack of some place (any place) better to go, she started out on the road that came from somewhere and went nowhere. She had flown from one prison (momentarily) only to find herself in another, but this time one of her own making (no escape). But to go back was impossible (certain death), and even here she knew she would not last much longer (only one bullet was needed). So she kept walking on the road that went nowhere.
Perhaps at the end of it she would find what she was looking for.
(illusions).
In the beginning, it had been wonderful. Easy, too. He had made it easy, and she had followed without looking back. No regrets.
The freedom she had felt was unbelievable. Knowing that the lies were over, the stress was gone, was unbelievable. To her, anything was worth having that. No price was too high (what is life without independence?).
Now, she wasn't so sure.
In the beginning, she was angry, naïve, restless. He was solid, strong, new – different from everything else in her life. He woke up feelings in her she had forgotten existed. He gave her the strength and reassurance she needed. She gave him the excitement he craved. But it wasn't enough for him. He convinced her that it wasn't enough for her, either.
For a long time, she had been miserable (since eternity). The lies, the death, the blood, it hunted her, followed her, embedded itself under her skin, and she couldn't get it out. She couldn't escape it. (they would kill her, one day). Knives flashed through her dreams, and voices echoed in her nightmares. She grew to hate her life, and she wanted out. But she never thought her dream could become reality.
At least, not until she met him.
It had been a warm spring day, and they had collided at a park. She knew as soon as she looked at him that she needed him. He would be her salvation.
He would set her free.
Perhaps they weren't meant to be; maybe she needed something (anything) so badly that she made him something he was not (never would be). But all that was irrelevant now; what was done was done.
They had only known each other a few days when she told him the truth. Told him how much she wanted freedom, craved it. She knew it was stupid and crazy (fatal). But she wanted to taste life the way he tasted it. She wanted to be normal (what is normal?). He told her he could give her freedom. She had laughed – can you buy freedom? No, he replied, you can steal it.
So they did. It was quick, easy, painless. Blond hair dye, choppy cut, green contacts, and lots of self-tanner. A large birth mark on her left cheek, and a trip to his "friend" for new identification. He had wanted the Carribbean, she had wanted Peru. They settled on Morocco. No one would know them there, she rationalized, and they could be safe for a few days (never more).
In the beginning, it was wonderful. She was a new person, inside and out. She tried everything new she could – they moved when they felt like it (when they had to), stayed where they wanted to (run-down shacks that no one but locals knew about). Odd jobs here and there kept a minimal amount of food in their stomachs. She enjoyed the nomadic life. Or rather, she convinced herself that she did (illusions).
It couldn't have lasted long. She had known that. The inevitable approached – the discontent, the anger, the realization that she couldn't go back. (the gunshot).
And so the excitement wore off, laying bare the life they led. She had craved normalcy, freedom – what she had gotten was far from it. The roach-infested cot she slept on was not normal. The constant moving was far from average. Her painfully thin body with its glaringly protruding ribs was hardly ordinary. The running, the hiding, was not freedom.
He was not her salvation.
The knowledge came to her slowly one night, as she lay on her dirty cot and looked up at the sky through the holes in the roof. She didn't want this. She didn't want him (she wanted the one she had left behind). She was living in a world of lies (illusions), and if she wasn't careful, it would all come crumbling down around her.
To hell with being careful.
So she left. She took the contacts out and cut her hair close to her scalp with her dirty knife, all the way to her brown roots. Her ratty t- shirt and torn shorts would have to stay, as she had no money for anything else (she didn't care). Walking out of the half-collapsed shed, feeling the Moroccan dirt beneath her bare feet and the distant stars bearing down on her with their cold judgment, she realized she had nowhere to go.
For lack of some place (any place) better to go, she started out on the road that came from somewhere and went nowhere. She had flown from one prison (momentarily) only to find herself in another, but this time one of her own making (no escape). But to go back was impossible (certain death), and even here she knew she would not last much longer (only one bullet was needed). So she kept walking on the road that went nowhere.
Perhaps at the end of it she would find what she was looking for.
(illusions).