Leaving
v. 2.0
Priss
The bag makes a soft clicking sound as I zip it, then look up
to see if I have forgotten anything. A scan reveals a bed, a
fridge...none of them useful for someone who intends to run
far, far away. None of them conductive to reckless
speed and sleepless nights in cheap hotels. But on the
almost bare walls, I spot a poster. No. The poster. The
first time anyone had deemed me important enough to advertise
that I was playing at their club. Probably just thought that
a hot looking babe would boost attendance, but I...I had
been elated, as excited as a girl with a reputation to keep
could be.
A lump rises suddenly in my throat: a little sad but mostly
anger at this sudden stranger. How dare she be so happy?
Without thinking my hand jerks out. It makes a satisfying
ripping sound as it tears from the wall and its not until I
turn around to throw the now crumpled paper to the floor that
I notice you. My pounding heart breaks the lump as I wonder
how much of my little performance you've just witnessed. Not
much, thankfully. Your eyes flicker to the wall, then to me,
then back to the wall again. I lean back against my bike and
fold my arms across my chest, defiant, angry, and scared.
You bend down, a careful little motion in order not to muss
your skirt. A choked laugh gets caught just behind my teeth,
at how out of place you are, how far above this. Perfectly
manicured nails, sensible heels, hair in one of those cuts
always described as classic, and, of all things, a pearl
necklace.
This does make me laugh, a harsh one-syllable cry with a
rasping edge of hysteria, almost repeated when I realize that
you do not share my sense of absurdity. It is cut off when I
see you pick up the poster, soft hands gentle, but with a
firmness that makes me tense as much as if you ran them
across me, smoothed my troubled conscious instead of that
battered scrap. You look up and I drop my arms behind me,
pushing down hard for support. A piercing gaze I could
handle, would expect. But for once you look human, tired
and lonely and hoping. You extend the paper towards me,
silently. I refuse to look at it, concentrating instead on
your face, on your tongue running over your lips,
on small white teeth biting down.
A few moments and I will lose my resolve.
A few moments and I will stay, just because of you.
It is not a feeling I am comfortable with. I spin
around, hands pressing against the cool metal. "I'm sorry,
Sylia." The words tumble out, struggling to fill the gaping
wound of silence. "I just can't..." Splashes of hot, salty
water briefly warm my hand, and my shoulders begin to shake.
I have cried more this week than all the rest of my life
combined. Dear God, all I want is someone to hold me, to
tell me everything will be all right. But I lost that when I
was twelve and the soft clicking sound of the trailer door
behind you as you leave is the only voice in my world.
Sylia
The car door is open but I remain inside it, unsure as to
whether to continue. I have seen worse places, I suppose.
It's just that you do not live in them. Your house has
always been something of an abstraction in my mind. A lot
name, a number that I did not want to see fleshed into rust,
scrap metal reflecting what little of the setting sun's light
seeps through the abandoned high rises surrounding it. I step
out of the vehicle and shut it behind me.
Your door is not locked. Does not have a lock, a fact rather
pointless to remedy when you are already packed, except for a
wad of paper forlornly thrown on the floor. You suddenly
transfer your gaze from it, to me. I purposely ignore you,
noticing instead the cracks in the cement it lies on, another
defect I would improve now that the chance is past. The
object of my interest retrieved I study it carefully, noting
with cool detachment that it could almost be seen as a symbol
for your music career and its...partner....job. I do not
wish to think what throwing it away might mean.
I offer it to you, in a movement too like desperation for my
liking, looking up at you for the first time. The heat of
your anger has been almost tangible presence on my skin since
I've entered, so I am surprised to see your red eyes rimmed
with tears, your body held in a defensive, not antagonizing
posture. I wait, nervous as a child on Christmas morning,
remembering that she misbehaved the night before.
You do not reject it. I, fool that I am, think for a moment
that you will accept it. You turn away. Whispering in a
cracked voice something I can not quite hear, its content not
so important as its form, not nearly as important as the sobs
that accompany it.
I reach out, stroking my finger down your cheek. But only in
my mind. I am too disciplined to do so in actuality. Or
perhaps just too scared. Back outside the air is crisp and
fresh, but all I notice is how cold it is.
v. 2.0
Priss
The bag makes a soft clicking sound as I zip it, then look up
to see if I have forgotten anything. A scan reveals a bed, a
fridge...none of them useful for someone who intends to run
far, far away. None of them conductive to reckless
speed and sleepless nights in cheap hotels. But on the
almost bare walls, I spot a poster. No. The poster. The
first time anyone had deemed me important enough to advertise
that I was playing at their club. Probably just thought that
a hot looking babe would boost attendance, but I...I had
been elated, as excited as a girl with a reputation to keep
could be.
A lump rises suddenly in my throat: a little sad but mostly
anger at this sudden stranger. How dare she be so happy?
Without thinking my hand jerks out. It makes a satisfying
ripping sound as it tears from the wall and its not until I
turn around to throw the now crumpled paper to the floor that
I notice you. My pounding heart breaks the lump as I wonder
how much of my little performance you've just witnessed. Not
much, thankfully. Your eyes flicker to the wall, then to me,
then back to the wall again. I lean back against my bike and
fold my arms across my chest, defiant, angry, and scared.
You bend down, a careful little motion in order not to muss
your skirt. A choked laugh gets caught just behind my teeth,
at how out of place you are, how far above this. Perfectly
manicured nails, sensible heels, hair in one of those cuts
always described as classic, and, of all things, a pearl
necklace.
This does make me laugh, a harsh one-syllable cry with a
rasping edge of hysteria, almost repeated when I realize that
you do not share my sense of absurdity. It is cut off when I
see you pick up the poster, soft hands gentle, but with a
firmness that makes me tense as much as if you ran them
across me, smoothed my troubled conscious instead of that
battered scrap. You look up and I drop my arms behind me,
pushing down hard for support. A piercing gaze I could
handle, would expect. But for once you look human, tired
and lonely and hoping. You extend the paper towards me,
silently. I refuse to look at it, concentrating instead on
your face, on your tongue running over your lips,
on small white teeth biting down.
A few moments and I will lose my resolve.
A few moments and I will stay, just because of you.
It is not a feeling I am comfortable with. I spin
around, hands pressing against the cool metal. "I'm sorry,
Sylia." The words tumble out, struggling to fill the gaping
wound of silence. "I just can't..." Splashes of hot, salty
water briefly warm my hand, and my shoulders begin to shake.
I have cried more this week than all the rest of my life
combined. Dear God, all I want is someone to hold me, to
tell me everything will be all right. But I lost that when I
was twelve and the soft clicking sound of the trailer door
behind you as you leave is the only voice in my world.
Sylia
The car door is open but I remain inside it, unsure as to
whether to continue. I have seen worse places, I suppose.
It's just that you do not live in them. Your house has
always been something of an abstraction in my mind. A lot
name, a number that I did not want to see fleshed into rust,
scrap metal reflecting what little of the setting sun's light
seeps through the abandoned high rises surrounding it. I step
out of the vehicle and shut it behind me.
Your door is not locked. Does not have a lock, a fact rather
pointless to remedy when you are already packed, except for a
wad of paper forlornly thrown on the floor. You suddenly
transfer your gaze from it, to me. I purposely ignore you,
noticing instead the cracks in the cement it lies on, another
defect I would improve now that the chance is past. The
object of my interest retrieved I study it carefully, noting
with cool detachment that it could almost be seen as a symbol
for your music career and its...partner....job. I do not
wish to think what throwing it away might mean.
I offer it to you, in a movement too like desperation for my
liking, looking up at you for the first time. The heat of
your anger has been almost tangible presence on my skin since
I've entered, so I am surprised to see your red eyes rimmed
with tears, your body held in a defensive, not antagonizing
posture. I wait, nervous as a child on Christmas morning,
remembering that she misbehaved the night before.
You do not reject it. I, fool that I am, think for a moment
that you will accept it. You turn away. Whispering in a
cracked voice something I can not quite hear, its content not
so important as its form, not nearly as important as the sobs
that accompany it.
I reach out, stroking my finger down your cheek. But only in
my mind. I am too disciplined to do so in actuality. Or
perhaps just too scared. Back outside the air is crisp and
fresh, but all I notice is how cold it is.