The Other Side(69)

And it’s at this exact moment that I realize maybe I didn’t have something to prove to her.

But that I just wanted her to be proud of me.

Proud.

Of.

Me.

With that final revelation, I descend the three stairs on the other side of the stage, and instead of turning left and remaining in line to return to my seat for the remainder of the ceremony, I walk straight ahead, set on a path toward a gate—any gate—that will get me out of here.

“Young man, you need to sit down. You can’t leave until it’s over.” The woman walking next to me is intermittently walking and jogging because her short legs are no match for the pace I’m suddenly keeping.

I don’t even look at her when I answer so many things at once: “It’s over.” And then I run. My cap falls off before I make it to the gate and I leave it behind. At some point, I unzip my gown and shrug it off, leaving it behind too. There’s a desperation like I’ve never felt thrumming through my veins. It’s terrifyingly persistent, high alert, need to take action. I don’t stop running until I’m standing on the front porch of the Victorian on Clarkson.

My legs are shaky when I walk up the stairs to the third floor. Unlocking the door, I’m grateful Johnny and Cliff are both gone. I don’t have it in me to interact, even minimally. When I remove the padlock on my bedroom door, I toss it, with the key still inserted, on a shelf next to my cassettes. My backpack is empty on my sleeping bag where I left it this morning. Unzipping it, I throw in only essentials: the money I’ve been saving for two years, and the sleeping pills I took from the medicine cabinet in 2A after the tenants were evicted last year. One will buy me a bus and cab ride to the mountains, and the other will buy me oblivion. Next I throw in a few things that I’d like with me when I go out because they remind me that sometimes the universe creates remarkable beauty: Nina’s Physical Graffiti album because it will forever remind me of her; my first edition Dark Knight Returns comic book because getting lost in someone else’s imagination and art provided a necessary coping mechanism for years; and a pencil drawing of Alice standing on the fire escape staring unseeing, but all-knowing, at a sky filled with stars only she can behold.

Zipping up the backpack, I leave it on the floor and quickly change out of my dress clothes and into jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. Everything is moving in slow motion now, maybe because the adrenaline has worn off and I can’t keep up with reality. Each movement is exaggerated, my senses dull and gauzy. Physical sensation feels sedate, like I’m so tired that my extremities are numb. I’m always tired, but this is a new level.

Before I leave, there’s one more thing I need to do. I need to leave the letter I wrote to Johnny last night in his room. It’s not a goodbye, it’s an I’m leaving to start over somewhere new, thanks for everything letter. Short enough that he’ll think I’ve moved on now that I’m done with school, but long enough that my heart won’t have to take on an extra dose of guilt because I know he won’t suspect anything and look for me.

I’ll disappear and never be heard from again.

And everyone will assume I ended up as far as a bus ticket would take me and made a new life.

That’s all I want.

I don’t want people to worry.

I don’t want people to question.

I just want people to forget and keep living their lives. I’ll slip out of the daily flow the same way I lived in it…unseen.

Leaving the letter and the sunglasses I’ve been wearing all morning, but apparently don’t have the constitution to steal, on Johnny’s dresser, I walk back for my backpack in my room. I consider putting the padlock back in place on my door but then leave it where it is on the shelf because it doesn’t matter. Shifting my eyes from the padlock to the box of Nina’s stuff on the bottom shelf, for a moment I consider opening it one last time and looking at her things. But then I realize I’m stalling.

Delaying the inevitable.

You’re nothing, is the rallying cry from within that pulls me out of the past and into the moment. That and the phone on the kitchen wall is ringing shrilly. It’s instinct to answer it, to do my job, but then I remind myself that I’m on a mission. And that broken appliances aren’t my concern anymore.

By the time I reach the front door, the answering machine has answered the call. And by the time I open the door Johnny’s greeting that isn’t much of a greeting has ended and the caller is speaking, “Johnny…”

I’m pulling the door shut on what is no longer my problem when I stop. An internal war is being waged. Shut the fucking door and leave! is screaming over the top of, Something is really wrong!

I’m shaking my head because this cannot be happening. I have plans. This is it. I’m so close. And I’m so fucking tired. The tears have come again. They’re warm but the flesh they’re trailing over is beginning to feel raw and chapped. It’s burning.

I’m listening to the message through what is now only a crack in the door. I know the voice. I don’t understand the words. But I can hear the pleading and desperation and it cuts to the bone. It’s the kind of pain that’s almost impossible to talk through, but worst of all, it’s blinding fear. He’s terrified. He wants Johnny, but Johnny isn’t here. Clicking the door shut, I walk toward the stairs.

The first flight I descend, I tell myself, Johnny will probably be back soon.