WHERE THE LOST ONES WILL GO

two

My mind lives with the busy streets of Chicago.

Even in my small room, which should not even be considered a room, because the bed belongs to the people long from before me, I can remember everything so well.

At ten, I am a wild child. Band-Aids hide my skin, my hair is always messy, and my knees are never not bruised. I love breaking things. I love coming home late, to the smell of dinner, and eating my food with my mouth open, while I speak of my adventures. My parents are lenient, calm people. They smile and have loving eyes. Dylan, on the other hand, scowls when I get food everywhere. He does not like that I tag along with him and his friends. He hates that his stories have become mine.

He grows out of this small dislike for me. He's forced out of it.

But I'm not talking about that now. Not ever again. I can talk about my life before. I will not talk about my life during.

And now, I live in the after.

I return to the streets of Chicago. My legs are weak, my eyes contest with the bright skies above.  Dylan forces me to stay close. He acts like I did grow up here for my whole life. Two years is a long time, I know he wants to say, but doesn't. He is right, though. Two years is a long, long time.

I am afraid to blink. I watch everything. The woman walking her German Shepherd. The young girls eat ice cream together on a bench. The barber through the shop window, chatting happily with a customer. I smell the sounds of the city I have missed terribly.

Dylan waits for me. He watches me watch everything. When I finally stop, he asks me, "You're ready?"

"To drain your bank account?" I grin. "Of course."

We are at the diner I have not been in for so long. It has changed, surprisingly. I hope the food hasn't. This used to be Dylan and my hang-out spot. He got his first job and would spend half of his small paycheck on dessert for the both of us. Together, we'd share a large stack of the most buttery chocolate-chip pancakes, with bananas and icing sugar. Honey too, my memory reminds me.

Dylan does not argue with me. In fact, he just stares.

He has done that a lot recently. He's just shocked, I suppose. That I'm here. That a glass wall does not separate us. If it wasn't a glass wall, then it was a long table or a mean guard. It is just us now.

The feeling is surreal. This is all over.

Dylan opens the door for me. I march in and head for a booth at the back. I feel happy. I haven't felt this happy in so long.

When we came here when we were younger, I'd marvel at all the options. The waitress would bring over our orders and would swirl a dollop of whipped cream on top of the stack. She'd smile, and so would Dylan, who would then complain about the 'smell of diabetes'. I did not care.

The waitress brings over the pancakes now. There is no whipped cream. The plate is smaller than I remember.

Whatever. I grab a fork. Dylan pushes the plate towards me.

"Eat as much as you want," he offers. He must feel a bit bad for me, after all, he's heard me complain about the centre's horrible food options for the last two years. Oatmeal, hard bread and butter took a while to get used to. 

I take the first bite. It does not taste as good as I remember.

I keep eating though. Dylan's spent his money on this. I'm not ungrateful.

"Do you have my room ready?" I ask him, with a mouthful of food. Dylan told me a while ago that he had to turn my room into a storage room. He's a hoarder.