Pulled Under | Slow Updates

2

drapetomania (n.) : an overwhelming urge to run away

<<    ✶    >>

My knuckles turn white as my grip on the steering wheel tightens. I tried calling Lyla, but she isn't picking up. So now I am on my way to her house.

I clench and unclench my jaw, subconsciously grinding my teeth. Tears spring to my eyes and I blink them away. I am harder than this. I will not show emotion. I will not cry.

The house lights are off, but Lyla's room lights shine brightly against the darkness. 

I honk and get no response. I send a quick text and then blow the horn for a few long seconds.

I know for a fact that her parents aren't home. They are on vacation in the mid west.

A silhouette in the window reveals itself.

Lyla, I confirm.

The curtain moves and I watch as she peeks out the window, seeing my car, and instantly shoos someone out and starts putting clothes on.

Soon, I see the guy from earlier hastily pulling his shirt on and racing to his car, thinking he might be caught.

Following him is a Lyla, already fully dressed.

That was one thing about her. She wasn't a stereotypical girl. She doesn't take forever to be ready. Just a minute or two and she'll be by your side.

She yanks the car door open and slips in and slams the door in one swift movement.

Before she can even utter a word or buckle, I zoom out of the driveway.

<<    ✶    >>

Lyla yawns. A huge, wide-mouthed one. 

"I'm exhausted," she slurs with sleep threatening in her tone. 

I grunt in response. I've been driving for the past hour, desperately searching for a boat rental shop.

I can't believe I'm doing this. Well, scratch that. I've been planning this getaway for months now. Maybe even a year.

"Where are we going," Lyla mumbles, forcing her eyes open, squinting at me. A headlight catches my face and Lyla sees the disgruntled look etched into my face. I feel her glare of worry. Her glare of pity.

I don't acknowledge her question and instead, pull into a parking lot of a small boat rental shop.

Finally, I think to myself.

The car quits its impatient grumble as I yank the keys out of it. My feet twitch with the hopeless temptation run, to gallop away from this hell hole.

I slam my door shut, Lyla quickly following suit.

Even though groggy and sleepy, Lyla manages to keep up with me.

I storm through the forming fog. 

The open sign flashes in the window of the shop, inviting me. Pulling me.

I open the door, an automatic bell ringing overhead. Lyla winces at the noise, practically blaring in her sleep filled ears.

A short, pudgy, old man squints through his glasses at us. A slow grin forms on his face, happy to finally have customers, even if it's late late at night. Almost midnight.

"Can I help you two," he croaks out, almost sounding like a groan from the scratchiness in his voice.

My head whips towards him and I approach him.

"I need a small motorboat," I say, almost demanding.

He swallows warily and starts typing away on his old, dusty desktop.

"I have one Tracker Topper 1542 available. It would be your cheapest option," he grumbles while scanning the computer with his eyes.

"How much," I ask, afraid it might be out of budget.

"Six fifty-three for six hours," he answers, peering out of the smudged glasses.

I nod and mumble my acceptance while handing him the cash, inwardly wincing at the sudden dent in my bank account.

He hands the keys for the boat and walks Lyla and me out to the dock at which the boat waits.

Waves lap at the barnacle infested piles. Boats rock unsteadily as the waves bounce back and forth between the ocean and dock. 

We come to a stop in front of a small motorboat, per request, with signs of starting rust. I grimace at it, knowing well that what I paid was not worth this piece of crap.

The worker starts untying the boat and holds it in place as Lyla and I climb on board.

I see Lyla yawn next to me, even though concern pools in her eyes.

I nod at the man and he starts his walk back to the building. I put the keys in and the motor sputters to life, kicking up salty water.

Lyla lets out a small squeal when some of the cool water lands on her exposed thigh.

I roll my eyes in annoyance, though it wasn't her fault she was her. Well, scratch that. We made a pact; if one of us runs away, the other one must come along.

Unsure how to do this, with my limited experience, I back out of the space and slowly make my way towards the awaiting ocean.

<<    ✶    >>

I already knew where we were headed. There was a small peninsula a little ways off the bay. 

Lyla's head lolls slightly. She springs back to life before her head hits the edge of the boat.

I had forgotten to grab my phone before leaving, so we were relying on Lyla's phone for the time. It was slowly losing life though. I hope they have phone chargers compatible with her phone.

It was a dingy thing, so I didn't hope too much.

She hit the power button on it and the screen blinded us, but the time was readable.

2:46 a.m.

How long does it take, I silently think.

It didn't occur till now. I came to the slow realization that I really didn't know where we were.

I had studied the maps, tracing out a path dozens of times until it was etched into my memory.

So why couldn't I recall it now?

I ignore the daunting question and rely on my dwindling confidence.

A small figure forms in my vision, and I pin it as land.

"Finally," I breathe out to myself.