Harmful Love || English

1. The light of freedom on my face

It was the great escape,
the prison break
The light of freedom
on my face

Taylor Swift, Getaway car

☆

"This is not a good idea" I breathe heavily.

"It's the stupidest of ideas, this one" I look around.

"Even JJ would reject it," I exclaim exasperatedly.

I walk back and forth around the perimeter of my room, nibbling on my fingertips.

I return sitting up in bed and open the computer again. The screen shows the chat between my uncle and me. I ask him where his yacht is. He replies, near Siesta beach, not very far from here.

Distracting me from my thoughts is my father, "Madison, I'm taking your mother to the new restaurant downtown. Be sure to lock the doors and don't open them for anyone," I shout a "yes."

I hear the door slam; they have left the house. That leaves only me and my fallible plan.

It is half past seven in the evening; there is still a ray of sunshine outside, illuminating and warming the city. It's the best of times.

"Okay, I'll try my luck."

I don't want to think about it for another second: I take my backpack where inside I had previously put the clothes I will need, go to the kitchen get three bottles of water, quickly make a sandwich and put all the money I have accumulated over the years in my pocket.

I take some drawing paper, pencils and blue hair dye. Just in case.

Everything is ready; I'm about to climb down from the window (so as not to arouse suspicion) but immediately I remember something.

I take from the jewelry box a necklace with a silver moon, I used to wear it at the Outer Banks.... The other identical necklace, with Saturn instead of a moon, I lost just a few days before I left.

I always thought that now that half will be worn by my soul mate.

Someday I will meet him. And I will love him from the moon to Saturn.

I slipped the one left in my sweatshirt pocket and took a leap, landing on my feet fortunately.

"Direction Siesta beach" I whisper to myself.

I walk nonstop with GPS in hand, following to the letter all the instructions I am receiving. I am giving myself away until I see it: my uncle's yacht in all its majesty.

I get closer; the blue paint marks the boat with the words "Pilar Rossi," it is stunning.

In command of the imposing boat is a gentleman; he will be the commander, my uncle said.

"Hi. Em, are you Mr. Marlow?" I ask hopefully.

"Yes. You must be Miss Anderson, niece of the yatch owner, right?" replies Marlow, not taking his eyes off the horizon.

I nod and he invites me up.

"Where do I take you, Miss?"

I take a big breath and then confidently reply.

"To the Outer Banks."

"Be patient, it will take three/four days taking into account the hurricane that was just recently in our destination..."

I have been waiting for this moment for 1589 days, a few more will certainly not be a problem.

I have been counting them since I moved from the Outer Banks to come here to Florida. And today, after four years, I finally leave here to return to my happy place.