The Illusion of Permanence

Chapter 3

I feel the pain first.

My whole body hurts. It's the only thing I can focus on, and I haven't even opened my eyes yet. There's a dull, steady ache in my butt, a throbbing on the back of my head, and a sharpness in my abdomen. As I focus on each area of my body, trying to figure out exactly how badly each one of them hurts, I remember how each of them happened: being pushed down onto my butt, my head rebounding off the floor, his foot striking my torso.

The mental pain of remembering almost hurts worse than the physical pain.

I know I'm being pathetic. The pain I'm feeling is nothing compared to my mother's. She's battling cancer, for god's sake.

I feel bad for leaving her. I do, I swear. I know that she's also going through a lot more emotional pain than I am in addition to the surplus of physical pain, but it's all going to be over for her soon. I'm not religious, so I'm not sure if there's an afterlife or not. But if we assume that there isn't one, like I often do, then when she dies, all of her emotional pain will disappear along with all of the physical pain.

For me, her death will only make everything worse. 

The physical pain will get worse, because my father won't have anything holding him back. Right now, he occasionally tries to be a decent person, but that's only for Mom. And after last night—now that he's fully realized the power that he has over me—he'll start hurting me more and more, testing the waters to see how much damage he can do.

It's kind of a given that the emotional pain will get worse after Mom is gone. I already miss her presence around the house and in my daily routine, but at least now I have peace of mind knowing that she is still alive, and that I can visit her in the hospital whenever I want.

Maybe if I don't experience her death, it'll always feel like she's still alive.

If I leave now, I can keep her in my memory as she is. I can pretend that if I ever decide to go home, she'll be there waiting for me. I can pretend that my father is still trying to be a better person for her, I can pretend that everything is as it is now. But I also won't forget the circumstances that made me leave, so that I won't want to come back. I can't come back. It's too dangerous.

It's 6:42 am. School starts at 8:00 am, and my school bus stops outside my house at 7:45 am. I have about an hour to get everything ready.

I take a deep shower—not long, but really cleansing—because I don't know the next time I'll be able to. When I get out, I get dressed in a versatile outfit with lots of layers—my favorite jeans and converse sneakers, paired with a simple tee shirt with a flannel on top. I throw as much of my wardrobe as I can into the only duffle bag I have. I make sure to include plenty of socks and underwear, deodorant, my soap and shampoo, pads and tampons, my favorite sweatshirt, and one light jacket and one heavy one. Luckily, my "heavy" jacket is actually a down jacket that is rather thin, yet keeps in a lot of body heat, so it doesn't take up a lot of space. It's summer now, but I'm not planning on being back by winter, so I need to pack everything: gloves, warm socks, a scarf. I'm starting to run out of space, so I grab my school backpack—which is empty, because today is the last day of classes—and move some things over from my duffle bag to my backpack. I'm able to add some entertainment things: my iPad, which was a Christmas gift from my aunt two years ago, my favorite headphones, and a copy of Pride and Prejudice that I haven't started reading yet. Thankfully, Apple made the chargers for the iPads and iPhones the same, which saved space for me because I only had to pack one for both. I went around my room and threw anything else of value or importance that I could fit between my duffle bag and backpack, shoved it in until it was full. Luckily I've never been one for makeup, so I didn't have to bother with any of that.