Spotlights

Escape

TW: Suicidal thoughts   

The sounds of distant yelling, the sounds of doors slamming, the sounds of a car revving up and driving away. These were the sounds that made up the symphony of Connor Murphy's life. Well, that's not completely true. Sometimes he was the source of all the yelling. 

Connor added his own contribution to the chorus of doors banging shut, locking it quickly behind him.  Throwing himself onto his bed, he sat there and stared at the ceiling. He was so done with this. With this shitty day. With his shitty life. 

Six, I just have to make it to six. 

Then he could leave. Three nights each week Connor left the chaos that was his home to attend a theatre class, well more like a club of sorts. Ridiculous as it was, that class was his escape. But Connor knew there was no way he was going to last until then. It was only four o'clock. 

And with that thought, came the craving. It always came back for him. The need to feel his troubles wash away. He tried to sit it out, but soon became a sweaty, shaking mess, each minute ticking by slower than the one before. 

"Damn it!" Connor yelled, throwing a hand over his face. He couldn't take it anymore. His pillow had barely hit the floor before he was in his closet, trying to find the old shoebox that housed his stash of weed. 

Ah.

Hurriedly opening the lid, Connor pulled out its contents. He lit the joint, desperate for relief, then slumped up against the wall, sighing. He hated it, but oh God did he love it. The smell began to fill the air, the same smell that coated every single thing he owned. 

"CONNOR!" 

That was Zoe's voice. Shit. 

"CONNOR! OPEN THE DAMN DOOR!" 

"WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT?" He yelled, making no move to open the door. 

"Dad wants to talk to you." 

"Tell the asshole to come talk to me himself." 

Connor heard Zoe make an exasperated noise, her footsteps retreating. He sat there for a few more minutes, letting it all wash over him. He waited for a sharp knock on the door, signaling his father had had enough of him. But it never came.  

Connor wasn't going to complain. After finishing the joint, he sat back on his bed pulling out his phone. Four thirty. 

Alright then. 

YouTube binge.   

Video, after video, after video. 

Then there was a gentle rap on his door, no words. Connor looked at the time and understood. 

Finally

He grabbed his messenger bag, pulling on his combat boots and lacing them up. Running a quick hand through his tangled hair, Connor pulled open his bedroom door and practically ran down the hall and down the stairs. Didn't stop to say bye to anyone, or let them know he was leaving. He just made a beeline for the door, desperate to get out. 

As the door shut behind him, Connor heard the beginnings of a farewell from his mother, but it was quickly clipped off. The brisk autumn air caressed his face, cooling his heated skin. He pulled his jacket tighter around himself. Connor finally reached his car, opening the door and sliding inside. It started with a sputtering cough, turning into a steady hum. 

There was still a few minutes to spare, so he finally allowed himself to truly relax. Connor focused on the massive house to his left. His house. Not home. Home would never be a word he would use to describe this place, more like temporary living arrangement. The outside was painted a white shade that was painful to the eyes, each and every window lit up with a soft glow. Except his. 

To everyone on the outside, it looked like a happy home with a happy family. 

If only they knew how fucking wrong they were.  

He didn't want to do this anymore. Connor looked away and slammed his foot on the gas. His knuckles were turning white against his grip on the wheel, turning his already pale skin even paler. 

"GOD DAMN IT!" he screamed, slamming on the break. Hard. He couldn't do this. Sure, he would get away for a few hours, but he would always come back. There was no escaping. His life was a living hell and there was no escaping it. 

But there was.    

Connor had driven far enough out, surround by trees, nothing but an empty road before him. He could hit the gas and turn the wheel. No one would know, no one would hear. This was the only way out, he was sure. 

There was a tree far enough to the left that by the time the car crashed it would have picked up enough speed for it to be fatal. Or at least keep him in the hospital the rest of his pathetic life. 

His hands gripped the wheel, right foot bracing itself over the pedal.  

His phone rang. 

Connor released a breath, coming back to his senses. Or what was left of them. His fingers released their death grip on the wheel, and he threw himself back in his seat.  He didn't pick up the phone, just let it ring. The bright, bouncy tune sounding much to cheery for the situation.  

His breathing was ragged, chest heaving up and down in unsteady breaths. God, he felt like he was going to throw up. Sweat beaded down his forehead, the heat seeming to increase by the second. He felt tears flowing, despite his best attempts to hold them back. 

He needed to get out. 

Connor shoved his car door open, the cold air washing over him once again. He braced his hands against the side of the car, looking at the asphalt. Slowly, slowly his breaths became even. The feeling the small amount of food he'd consumed was going to make it's way back up gradually disintegrated.  

His throat was still dry, palms still sweaty. But he could function. Carefully, Connor got back behind the wheel, gently gripping it. He moved the car forward. He kept his thoughts on the road ahead. Not the trees around him, not the cloud covered sky, just the road. 

The whole way there.