School has begun again and I’m taking a class called “Intermediate Fiction Writing.” And so, to inspire myself/mourn over the necessity if writing without “inspiration” or any sort of plot, I’m re-reading fictional things I have written. I stumbled upon the following and figured it was worth posting 1) because I like it, 2) because it gives me a little bit more time to get courage up to write, and 3) because I wrote it exactly two years ago.
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I am a silhouette this Salmon morning. You can’t see the cracks in the sidewalk or those black marks where people so rudely spat their gum. Right now, if I took a picture all that would be visible is an artistic glare of what appears to be a girl looking to the right, holding what appears to be a suitcase at what appears to be a bus stop. Those sun spots would be perfectly balanced and anyone seeing it would remark on its uplifting nature. “It speaks of the journey each of us is traveling.” “It shows how much we can accomplish.”
But in reality, I’m pathetic. My suitcase, so idealized in a silhouette, is actually tattered and not in the “cool” way. [define] My bruises aren’t striking, they’re a sickly yellow-brown. I’d like to think of myself as a silhouette: romanticized, idealized. Despite what I thought, there is nothing romantic about “running away.” I’m not being chased. I’m not sneaking. I’m just disappearing. And I doubt anyone has noticed.
Here’s what happened: someone died. And my boyfriend beat me up. Maybe he had good reason to; maybe I’m not that hurt, but I’m gone. I know where I’m going, or at least I think I do. (I’ve planned this for years). I’ll do what it takes to make a new life in this world. That or I’ll leave it. In any event I’m leaving this asbestos neighborhood and the familiar state.
