“Bulls-eye,” a voice startles me as I bask in glory.
“Jimmy, you should get used to this by now,” I turn to the owner of the pub.
“And you should be in school kid.” I make a face and walk to the bar, “Nothing important’s going on today. Can’t see why I can’t cut.” I pass my phone to him with the school’s number dialed.
Jimmy looks at my phone like it’s radioactive.
“Please?” I put on my most innocent face.
Jimmy sighs, “Fine, but this is the last time I’m doing this,”
“That’s what you said the last time and the time before that and –”
“I get it,” he cuts me off and calls to report my absence at school, “But kid, you needa be careful. A girl like you is wasting her time in a place like this,”
I take my phone and get off the stool. “I know. I’m wasting my time in general Jimmy,” I say as I walk out of his pub and onto a public transport bus.
I stare out the window into the blur of trees and streetlights, the cold morning breeze slightly stinging my face. My music is playing so loud that I can practically feel the drumsticks banging away at my head. We’ve been rolling for 30 minutes and I can’t even feel my nose anymore. Another 45, and my face will have frozen off, but the bus will finally be at the outskirts of town, my safe haven.
I used to come out here all the time with an old friend, but now I come here occasionally, by myself, to remind me of what I was and what I am now. The long screech of the brakes signals that my stop is here. The doors of the bus open with a whoosh and the breeze hits me harder than ever. What’s ironic is that I hate coming here because of what this place does to me. But the truth is that I’m addicted to the memories and even more addicted to the 2 second euphoric high followed by the drastic flood of emotion.
I open the cabin door and with the squeak of the hinges, the reel of memories start playing one by one. I sit down on the tattered cushion and get lost in the scene setting. Six-year-olds have long stopped believing in fantasies. I’m sixteen and I still do.
Stage two: I pull out my phone and scroll through all the pictures I have in my gallery. I take a breath. I know I’m going to regret it later, but no one can stop me. For all I care, this is my two minutes of happiness, even if it’s not there. By the 7th picture, I turn my phone off and stare at the ceiling. I absorb the nothingness of the cabin, the nothingness that is now all I have left, and just sit there in silence, knowing that it won’t take long for the tears to come. But I’m stronger than that. This time, I won’t.
But I’ve invested myself so much at this point, that now my brain has taken over me. I close my eyes only to see flashes, bursts, of what I’m desperately trying to get away from. How people have so much control over themselves, I have yet to find out.
And now comes the anger. Resentment at no one but me, because knowing the consequences, I still choose to do the exact opposite of what sanity demands.
This time, just this time, I won’t feel anything.
My eyes wander across the floor and stop at a broken picture frame. The photograph itself doesn’t show any sign of damage, even though the glass is cracked in multiple places. I can relate.
At this point, I just give in and let the flood take over me. There’s not one nerve in my body that has the ability to fight back. I know that in a few days’ time, this will all repeat all over again.
