BEFORE I DIE, I PRAY TO BE BORN | ✓

▬▬ 18

WEDNESDAY
06 NOVEMBER, 1996
DORIAN

               I hate driving. There's nothing quite as overwhelming as being in charge of a 1.3-ton metal contraption with a hundred different rules to keep track of. Counting from this morning, I think I've sweat enough to fill a small swimming pool.

At least now that we're out of Cambridgeshire, the rest of the way is a stretch of inactive motorway. My hyperactive nervous system finally relaxes enough for me to glance at Isaiah for the first time in an hour. 

The food I got him during our petrol break sits untouched on his lap. The panini has gone cold whilst the sun flooding the car has dried the salad and melted the chocolate. (I bought several options thinking it would have the highest chance of him eating but the strategy proved unsuccessful). Leaning against the window, he stares at the plains that now encapsulate us with no sense of nostalgia.

Silence is heavy between us.

I move my hands down on the steering wheel, then back to their original position. 'You really should eat something.'

He doesn't hear me.

It's something between sick humour and cruelty that the first time I enter Lower Halsett, it's with an Isaiah who can't stand to look at me. Though I lived not ten minutes from the river, Isaiah never let me cross it — he was more adamant about it than my parents.

Now, instead of crossing literal or figurative bridges, I drive in from the opposite end. I wait for him to demand I turn around but all he does is stare vacantly at the "ENTERING HALSETT" sign. When I glance at Isaiah again, I understand that this is the first introduction between us.

We might have grown up in the same town but Halsett is segregated as though by a totalitarian regime and by denying me his half, he denied me parts of himself too. How could our worlds ever fit together when he never let me step into his? He came into mine, picked up the appropriate accent and subjects for discussion, but never let me reciprocate. The river, our classless utopia, was as far as I was allowed.

This advent doesn't have enough ceremony. Isaiah is either too zoned out to recognise it or he wants to pretend like it's no big deal, as if he didn't make me promise I'd never try to visit him. 

Nonetheless, a smile tugs my mouth at the thought of my parents: they'd hate it if they knew I was here. When we were still in school, I played with the idea of going to Cambridge instead of Oxford just to spite them but Isaiah insisted it wasn't far enough — "You squint and you'd see Halsett at the horizon." It's no matter, this is the best of possible rebellions.

'We can stay there.' Isaiah's voice is so hoarse I don't understand his speech until he indicates a building that comes into sight along with a petrol station.

The name on the roadsigns is partially covered by graffiti tags so I'm left to guess whether it's called Moonlight Motel or Moorland Motel (though I doubt it's the latter considering we don't have moors anywhere near here). The town is still far enough to be hidden behind the aspens and poplar and when I turn the engine off, we're encapsulated by silence.

I've just let go of the steering wheel to reach for him when Isaiah abruptly sits up and opens the glovebox. From inside, he takes everything needed to roll a cigarette and I watch as he does so with distressing dexterity.

He still hasn't eaten anything. This is (at least) his fifth cigarette.

'If you hate it so much, why don't you look away?' His voice is sardonic and I realise I'm scowling. 'I ain't need you staring at me every time like it's any of your fucking business.'