As if dead is better than being with me.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Connect the Dots.”

I understand what she meant. She meant to come up to me and say some off handed remark that everyone always makes in these types of situations. She thought that as I stared at the wall and tried to force myself to breathe that I was actually looking at her. That by looking at her I was insisting that she come over here and say those stupid words. She was feeling guilty I suppose. I don’t know what she was feeling. I don’t care what she was feeling. I don’t care about anything. I am however angry. No, I am not angry, I am furious! I am furious and I am in pain, and I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be standing in this room, surrounded by flowers and pictures and stupid people who say stupid things. Someone else catches my and looks as if they are about to come toward me. I can’t bear it, I can’t stand through one more conversation and see the pity in someone else’s eyes. I quickly duck my head and begin walking toward the back of the building. That is where the bathrooms are, so no one will suspect that that isn’t my actual destination.

I burst through the back door, practically running, and thank all the stars in the universe that no one is out back having a smoke break. I quickly make my way to my car and pop the trunk. I open the suit case inside and rummage around until I find them. The old gray sweats are holey from love and use. I pull them on, one leg then the other, mechanically I go through the motions. I pull them as tight as they can go and tie them, still they hang loosely around my hips. Desperately I claw for the zipper on the back of my dress. I finally grasp it and yank it down. I hear teeth breaking and seams ripping as I go, but I don’t care. I will never wear this dress again. I ball it up and throw it to the ground. I slip the old t-shirt over my head and the worn cotton is soothing on my skin. I take off my heels and place them in the trunk, I may be inconsolably angry, but I am still me, and shoes are shoes. I slip on an old pair of flip flops, slam the trunk, get in my car and turn the engine.

As I back out of the parking spot I do my best to do as much harm to that dress as possible. I finally turn to the parking lot and see an attendant coming toward me. I wish that he was chasing after me to demand money. Surely I haven’t paid him yet, and he wont let me leave without what is due him. I know the truth though, he is concerned and he wants to make sure I’m alright. Well screw him. Screw them all. Of course I’m not alright. Nobody in the history of the world that has been through what I have been through is alright. I pray there is no karmic retribution as I practically run him over in my escape to freedom.

It takes 7 minutes going 40 mph to see my town, my home, in the rearview mirror. Once I hit the city limits I gas it. I’m driving 75 mph on the highway to my future. Snuggly wrapped in the warmth of my past I refuse to look back. People will talk, maybe that stupid woman will think, “Was it something I said?” I don’t care. I can’t be there anymore. My world is over, it is shattered into tiny pieces of glass, and I am bare foot. I can’t bear the thought of bending to pick up each and every sliver. So I walk away, my feet bleeding more with every cut. The scars will never heal, but I will survive. I will survive.