I Shouldn't- But I Want To

The pedestrian light turns green. I take a step forward-

Wait.

I don’t want to go home.

Can I stay out for a little while longer?

Mom might get angry.

I have to go home.

But I don’t want to.

I look at the bulging grocery bag in my hand. The pedestrian light starts blinking.

I sigh.

To hell with it.

I run.

Skipping the right turn I usually take to go home, I veer left instead. I bound down the street, my chocolate brown hair flying behind me.

Where am I going?

I don’t know.

Wait, yes, I do.

Away from home.

It’s not a home.

I run. And I run. And I run.

And then I stop.

I take off my glasses and rub them clean- they had fogged up in the cool autumn air.

Where am I?

I put my glasses back on and glance around.

Broadway.

Tickets for Wicked and Harry Potter: The Cursed Child are being sold.

I look at the grocery bag in my clenched fist.

I want to watch a play.

I cross the street.

Harry Potter: The Cursed Child is sold out, but there are still tickets left for Wicked.

Retrieving my pale pink wallet from the back pocket of my denim jeans, I look. I have enough money.

“There are only seats left in the back row. That fine with you?” drawls the man behind the counter.

“It’s fine,” I nod, handing over the money eagerly. “Thank you.”

“Have a nice time, kid.”

I grin at the man as I walk out the door.

Glancing down at my ticket, I realize the play will start soon. So, I quickly make my way to the theatre. I’m about to go in when the security guard stops me.

“I’m sorry, miss, but food items are not allowed inside,” she informs me.

Oh.

I didn’t know that.

I’ve never been to the theatre before.

I look at the evil grocery bag again.

“Could you keep it for me, please?” I ask timidly.

The guard eyes me, bites her lip, then nods.

I beam, handing her the bag. Then, I rush inside.

The play hasn’t started yet. I’m on time.

As soon as I sit down, my phone chimes. I take it out of my pocket.

The screen is scratched, and the baby blue cover is almost black.

Sorry.

I have a text.

It’s from my mom.

“WHERE ARE YOU???” it says.

I don’t reply.

With trembling fingers, I delete the message. Then, I turn my phone off. Sighing, I turn my attention to the stage.

The lights turn off. I hold my breath in anticipation as a spotlight shines on a woman and the narrator’s voice booms around me.

It’s magical.

My jaw has fallen open, and I can’t seem to close it. My emerald eyes are fixated on the actors- their movements are fluid but precise. Practiced.

It’s mesmerising.

When the break starts, I ask someone what time it is. It’s late- I will be in huge trouble when I go home.

Looking at the stage wistfully, I leave, taking my grocery bag from the security guard.

“I hope you enjoyed it,” she says, a slight smile on her face.

I grin back at her, “I did. It was wonderful!”

She waves me out, but my smile vanishes as I leave.

Mom will be so, so angry.

Dread settling in my stomach, I step onto the pavement.

“Watch out!” I hear the security guard yell.

I look up, but I’m too late. A car slams right into me.

I fly sideways and distantly hear a crack.

My ears are ringing. Everything is blurry- my glasses must have fallen off.

Everything hurts.

I try moving my head, pain shooting through my skull. From the corner of my eye, I can see my lilac sweater turning a gruesome shade of red. In fact, it looks a lot like the wine mom is so fond of having.

Mom.

She won’t like that my sweater is ruined.

Oops.

I whimper as my head starts throbbing and darkness creeps into my vision. I can hear distorted voices. There must be people near me.

I try to ask them to take the grocery bag to my house- mom will be so very angry if she doesn’t get what she asked for. But my voice won’t work.

There is a wetness on my face- I think I’m crying. But the black spots dancing across my vision have taken over completely. I can’t see anything. I can’t hear anything.

Everything hurts so so much.

I think I am dying.

If heaven exists, I hope that’s where I go. Because I really don’t want to go home.

My breathing becomes laboured. Inhaling hurts too much now.

I didn’t think dying would be so painful. Maybe I want to live.

But that would mean going home.

I take in another shaky breath.

The ground beneath me is hard and very, very wet. And it feels like an elephant is sitting on my chest.

I think someone is trying to breathe life into me.

I try to tell them it won’t work.

I can feel my heart stuttering. I can feel my lungs cease to work.

My consciousness is fading, and I don’t mind letting it.

At least I will be at peace.

But it seems Death wants to torture me too, for though I am letting him grab my hand, he won’t pull me away. Instead, he teases me- dropping my hand and turning around to leave, before cheekily looking back and tugging at my wrist again.

“Take me with you!” I try to plead.

Despite my voice not working, he must understand what I am saying, because finally, finally, he embraces me. Picking me up, he carries me away.

I do not know if my broken body is still lying there on the pavement.

What I do know is that I am gone, and I will never have to go home again.