A Walk Down Ivy Laine

Thursday, October 16, 2014

Thursday, October 16, 2014

Some park in a neighborhood I passed called Pinebrooke

An account written from seven o'clock in the morning until my last breath.

And the birdie soars free. I died today.

The heat inside the semi-truck is amazing. It cradles around me as I keep my eyes open and write to keep the pain at bay. The various pieces of paper and manuals in the car rock along with my lullaby, seeping softly in and out. It's calming and nice to feel so many new friends in my mind. The constant vibration of the truck underneath me, though, does nothing for the small spasms of anguish coursing through me. Blood is visible now, which I hide under the black sweater I'm wearing. It slowly oozes over the tape covering my abdomen. A few hours from now my reality will change. For now I'll fight.

The only thought that keeps me alive is that maybe Willy has found a new home. He sleeps happily on the passenger seat, cradled up under Verne's jacket like he belongs. I feel like the past few days' worth of writing from my memory have taken up probably a good two thirds of my diary. There's only so many pages left. When I pass on, I'll write on the inside in English to please bury it with me so no one has to relive my past or know the truth. If someone manages to decipher my language, well, I wish you luck.

Verne, the driver, won't take my money after I lied and told him I'm running away from my supposed abusive boyfriend and that's why I'm covered in bruises and limping. He threatened to call the police, but I sweet-talked him into helping me get away instead with words like 'fresh start' and 'money saved up.' He agreed hesitantly and helped me into the cab. I try not to think about if he's maybe a 'hands-y' type of guy or wants some other form of payment. At the thought of having to use paper to defend myself since I'm weak, the paper in the cam screams warnings in my head, ready to strike. I shut them down in one swoop, not wanting a repeat of earlier.

He's a teddy bear though, Verne, and as much a gentleman as Tucker was, bless his poor soul. I wish I could have saved him. Maybe it was all necessary in the end. I needed to understand the whispers. If this it he price of a life's worth of trials over misunderstanding, one life isn't a sacrifice.

...Yessss...Paper hisses inside my head. I smile at them, stroking them with visions of forests. They seem intrigued by their origination. They push my odd guilty thoughts aside until I can't remember if I had just wished Tucker dead, or if I was hating myself for his death. Paper supplies me with their own visions. De-Barking, mixing together, chemical wetness, pulp---their collective birth. It's all fascinating.

A few hours in a trust is formed with Verne after some small talk in a fake American accent, which results in him handing me a bottle of acetaminophen. I down eight pain killers. Verne says nothing, but takes the bottle back and tucks it high out of reach in a net-pouch attached to a large sun-visor. He must think I'm an addict. Its okay, it works better with my story.

Verne whistles along to his country music and I try to act normal. There's a picture of a dachshund on his dashboard. Verne gets quiet when I ask. I discover the truth with a sad look that passes over his face.

Before I manage to fall into a restless sleep that I don't know if I'll wake, I decide to write an important note and stash it under the pillow for later.

***

Morning light wakes me up. With my consciousness returning very slowly, I realize I'm almost out of energy. We're stopped, but the truck is still going. Probably to keep the heat in the compartment. Verne is a true gentleman it seems.

I roll off the bed and manage to stand. Everything spins like the teacup ride at the carnival I tried last year with Tiffany. My fingers grip something, a handle or hook on the side of the compartment and I move forward on jelly legs to the front of the truck with only my diary grasped to my chest. I'm weak. Tired. Hot. Sweat rolls down my face and neck. Looking back at the cot, I see the aftermath of unconsciousness---a large bloodstain to ruin his mattress and a blanket to match. I only fleetingly feel guilty, but I have a feeling that Verne will forgive me. The world and I are disconnected as I turn back to my task at hand. All the noise seeping in and out reminds me of what it's like underwater, just burbles of noise. Even the paper around me blots in and out, feeling far away.

It's time.

Willy isn't in the cab. I can see him in the distance with Verne through the big front window. Verne is pouring water from a bottle for my dog to lick up. Willy enjoys it like a pup, lapping greedily, which makes a small flower bloom in my chest. Hope. Safety. He likes Verne. That's all that matters right now. We're at a pull-over stop somewhere and it's woodsy and mountainous outside. Pine trees and cabin-looking homes are in the distance to my right, a freeway and more mountains to my left. I'm completely lost. That's okay though, I realize, it doesn't matter anymore. There's only one thing that matters now.

With the rest of my strength I force myself to get around to the driver seat. My breathing seems so loud in my ears. No other noise is registering as my heartbeat pounds loudly like a drum. Note in hand, I fold it with shaky fingers over the steering wheel so Verne will find it easily. With that done, and hazy tears filling my eyes, I stumble out the door and down to the ground from the truck and make my way over the fence and out of sight with the last of my strength.

***

I've never felt this cold. Maybe the outside is cold, or maybe my insides are cold, but I don't notice it as much once I find a nice spot to sit down on kiddie slide. It's so beautiful here, among all the fancy homes. The park has a hill that's steeper than any hill I've seen before. To the right, almost at the top, is an old wooden structure that almost looks like a mini pie? Maybe an old ski jump? At the bottom of the hill is a small stream. It's peaceful. I can see a touristy-looking plaque on a stand in the distance, probably with a brief history of the hillside. I can't get up though, even though I'm somewhat curious to know the history of the place I'm about to die in. It doesn't matter anymore, right?

It's almost dark now and- Oh wow it's starting to snow! I've never seen snow before. It lands so beautifully on the page, leaving behind a fingerprint. Well, guess that answers my first question. Several flakes, fattening in size start to drift around, settling all over me. I don't feel it though. My stomach doesn't hurt anymore, not even as I lay down, but it's hard to write now---my fingers won't cooperate with all the shaking.

I think it's time to say goodbye.

I won't lie. I'm scared, but I guess I don't have to be anymore.