He raised his hand above her head and brought it down upon her cheek for the last time she could stand, the smack reverberating in her bones. He hits her over and over again, and she notices the room is a dreary gray that night. He leaves, expecting her to sob as usual, but she doesn't. She writes a note, it says, 'I'm not coming home.' She grabs her jacket, shoes, and few belongings she wants such as a note pad, a few changes of clothes, and a necklace her mother gave her as a child. She tucks them away, hiding them from the world, and creeps outside. It took courage, but she took flight.
She sold the car for $1100 and a bottle of something sweet. Needing another way to leave, she caught a train. Sitting in the lonely car, she counted seven stops. I can't have him find me. I've already come so far, she thinks. She gets off when she feels free.
She finds herself where people go to gloom for friends that have been buried there. It seems very grim to her, people dying while she is trying to reclaim her life. She feels the need to write to someone, anyone who will understand. They don't even have to respond, just pretend to listen. God maybe? Would he listen perhaps? An optimistic voice says. God's not real, you stupid bitch, another voice sneers. She decides to be optimistic for once. She takes out the notepad, and rummages in her purse for a pen, and is successful. She scrawls down,
'What am I really holding onto? My life is a tightrope and he has just been burning, burning, burning away at both ends. I've just got to be good at something. I've realized that I can't let the ground drag me around anymore . I've come to the conclusion that there are angels roaming this world, searching for people with a greater good in them, facing the demons in the world to find what they search for, what they believe in with such conviction. I don't mean to sound vain, but with what I've endured with that monster, living through rape and pain and insults on a daily basis and still finding little reasons to smile, the courage to stay with him as long as I have, and the decency and self worth to leave, I have reason to believe that I am one of the bravest one of those angels. I'm done being tied down. I need to burn these strings that have bound me up until now, so I can see if these old broken things are of use: if these tattered wings are able to take flight.
Forever yours,
Ameleth.
She ties the note to a balloon pilfered from a nearby resting spot. It may be cold, but she feels that the person laid to rest there doesn't need it quiet as much as she feels she does. She watches as it disappears into the horizon, going toward its possibly nonexistent destination.