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Through Tears MAG
I have never moved so fastthrough space. I have never had to try. I guess I never really had anywhere to gobefore. I still don't, but I keep moving. I'm obviously headedsomewhere.
When I was a little girl, I always wanted a pickup truck. Ipictured myself bigger than everyone else on the road. That was the plan. Thatwas a dream. Now, here I am in Jay's silver Jeep cruising down an empty road. Iguess I don't have to worry about being the biggest on the road; I'm the onlyone.
I always thought I was going to be happy. That was another dream. Jaywith his blond hair, blue eyes and perfect smile - he was a dream, too. Nobodyreally has a perfect smile, especially when they can't even give you one. Jaymessed up my jaw so badly, I don't know if I'll ever be able to smile again. Itmight hurt too much.
Now here I am, somewhere between home and whereverI'm going, and wherever I was in-between, watching the blazes and streaks ofcolor as they by the open window. I'm going so fast everything outside is a blur,freeze-framed in my window. The scenery never seems to change when you're lookingthrough tears, but then again, these tears are better than swollen black eyes andstreaks of blood. Yeah, these tears are mine. They are mine, not a gift from Jay.I got a lot of gifts from Jay. Speaking of, thanks for the car, Jay.
Iwonder how long it will take him to notice I'm gone. He'll notice the Jeep's gonebefore me. I wonder if he'll call the cops, or does he already know that would bea waste of time? As soon as they found me, they'd find all my scars, and bruisesand cuts of love from Jay. He won't call. The cops would just laugh at him, andJay hates to be laughed at. He might come look for me himself, but he'll neverfind me. He doesn't know where I am going ... and neither do I. I've never reallyknown where I was going, but I've always gotten somewhere.
I stare throughthe windshield, over the top of the steering wheel where my fingers are clenched,holding onto some freedom, and I see another scar, a big white one wrapped aroundmy ring finger on my left hand. That spot hasn't seen the sun for about fouryears. That's how long I wore Jay's ring. That's how long I pretended. For fouryears, soap and water clung to a class ring that probably wasn't even his. Heprobably bought it at a pawn shop and thought I would love him more forgraduating. That's probably why he beat me, too, because he thought I'd love himmore. Yeah, for four years he scarred my body, and my heart, and my finger, myring finger on my left hand, my wedding-ring finger. That scar will never heal.He thought I'd love him more for it.
I used to like scars when I waslittle. I used to play basketball and beat up the neighborhood boys in thestreets, just like this one I am flying over right now. I'd get scars on my kneesand elbows, sometimes even on my face. I always got scars on the bottom of mybare feet, but never on my finger, never on my heart. Those childhood scars werecool. They were things to be proud of. They were memories of basketball games andbike rides, of boys and crushes, but these scars, these new ones from cigarettesand fists, these scars are of love. These scars inside me are memories of men andlove.
I always thought about running away when I was little, but I neverdid, until now, and now I'm 26. Not so little anymore. Not so young. I'm lost.I'm 10,000 miles from nowhere, headed for anywhere. Anywhere is better than Jay'ssilver Jeep.
I buckle up. I'm guessing Jay never buckled up, and Jay neverlet me drive. He hardly let me do anything. Now I have it, I have all the power.I even have Jay's precious Jeep. I want to just pull over and kick the crap outof it. All those times this piece of junk wouldn't start for Jay, and he'd hitme. All those times a headlight burnt out, and he'd kick me. It's mine now, Jay.It's all mine, and I floor it, and all the blurs outside the window melt togetherand just make one fat blob of brown. From a bird's-eye view, I'd just be a silverstreak, a shooting star on an empty road. It must be beautiful to see me from upthere.
Eventually, I can't fly anymore. I stop and get out, and I do kickthe crap out of this stupid car until my feet are numb, and then I hit it with myfists until my hands are numb, and then I cry some more of my own tears as Islide down, my back against Jay's silver beauty with my head in my unfeelinghands. This car was supposed to be my ticket out of hell. It was my freedom. Myknight in shining (silver) armor come to take me away, but where have I gotten?It seems I've just driven in circles on this desert road.
Everythinglooks the same. No matter how fast I drive, the texture of the road neverchanges, and the picture in my window is as still as a postcard. If I hadn'tgotten out of the car, I'd probably think I was on one of those machines they usein the movies where the car just bounces up and down and the scenery changes on ascreen in the background to make it look like the car is moving, but it neverreally goes anywhere. Thank God I got out of the car. Thank God I'm not on one ofthose machines.
The sun is so hot, smiling and beaming down on the worldreminding us that we are all still alive, and there's really nothing morallyright we can do to change it. Again, I pound the car. My hands aren't numbanymore. But my heart, it still doesn't hurt. It still doesn't feel. It's notnumb though. It's just cold, icing up all my blood, and making me cry coldtears.
Maybe I should just start a town right here. It will be called JustLike Everything Else You've Seen Before (Poor beaten girl and the rest of thesame scene). Population: 1 - Me. Then maybe I'll get a dog, and when people drivethrough and ask, "What is this place?" I'll just say, "It waswhere I was going." Yeah, for six days and five nights it was where I wasgoing, and for six days and five nights it was the only place I was becauseeverything looks the same out here. Everything looks the same through tears.