Ruby Red Marionette

fortytwo | meditate

I could no longer stay with them.

I loved my grandparents, and the day I spent with them yesterday was cute, but there were more important things at hand. I just burned something that could have either saved or killed me so I didn't know how to react, and I couldn't express my confusion around them. I had to be around people who could understand my frustration.

That was one thing Isaiah was right about—we were all in this together. We were all each other had.

That's why I had to go back and do this now. That's why I had to ask him some questions.

There was no one like Stacy on the bus ride back. The person sitting next to me was a businessman, probably in his thirties. He had a laptop sitting on his briefcase and was typing away, cursing under his breath every few words when something went wrong. He was extremely boring, which gave me the opportunity to consider some things.

I still couldn't believe that I didn't notice Isaiah's failure to go to work. It seemed so strange, so unlikely, that I even thought that maybe he had been going to work but just changed his shift. I also thought that since I was out of the condo a lot, I could just be gone when he's at work.

Then again, that couldn't be the case. Every time I got back he looked crushed, like he'd been in the house by himself all day. Sometimes he'd even tell me outright what he was doing all day, like playing solitaire or cleaning the broom or making prank calls. That was proof that he wasn't working. He was paying bills, but he wasn't working.

Although I had time to, I didn't think about him for the rest of my trip. Every time he crossed my mind, I felt the hole again. This time I could identify where it was—at the soles of my feet. That's why it hurt to much, because every time I took a step I was stepping on it. Into it.

The bus ride finally came to a close. The driver, a different one than the first one, stood by the door to say goodbye to everyone who got off. To me, specifically, he said to have a good day and to take care of myself. I wondered why he singled me out, but then I realized that if I looked at someone who felt what I was feeling, I would see it on their face and in their eyes and in their posture. I'd give them my best wishes too.

In the absence of the book and the pie, my bag was much lighter. But all the weight from burning it and everything else seemed to have gone to my actual body. I felt like a stationary object that someone had uprooted from the ground and was trying to push along. I wasn't supposed to be moving. I was supposed to be sitting somewhere completely motionless in a fetal position with a plastic bag tied over my head.

I was supposed to be a lot of things. It changed nothing.

Something was very quiet about the street. I'd boarded the bus at around seven o'clock at night, so it had to be at least eleven. But there usually were still people about at this time. The night life was always buzzing with half-dead people and drunkards (and me). Tonight, however, was very quiet. Very still. The leaves on the trees were not moving and neither was anything else.

I walked a little faster so I could reach the bank. They always had a sign up outside telling the date and time. My faster walking didn't seem to help, but I got there nonetheless. Then I saw it.

December 31. 11:15 PM.

New Year's Eve.

I started to run. I was almost galloping like the horses we rode yesterday, and so was my heart. Nothing was moving around me because I couldn't see it. When I saw it though, the date, everything changed. I realized that everything was moving, it was just going so fast that I wouldn't notice unless I was aware of the circumstances. All the cars on the street and the people who suddenly turned into track stars—they all had to get home before midnight. They all had to make it inside and do their stupid little rituals to bring them into the new year safely.