Leaving Scars

Leaving can either feel as freeing as summer break when you’re a kid or as painful as sawing off your own leg. 

This time it is so much more the latter. 

My hands grip the steering wheel as I gasp for breath and hot tears sting my cheeks. 

I feel as if my chest is being crushed by boulder. 

Every mile is another deep cut to my soul. 

I can still feel the sun, hot, on my pale skin. I can see the water hitting the rocks. And I can still hear his voice, a whisper, in my ears. 

Yet, metal surrounds me and cold air conditioning is assaulting my sunburned arms. I’m completely alone. 

I feel the urge to scream, but I swallow and bury it in the pit of my stomach. 

I wonder if anyone has ever been free and I wonder why we buy so easily into the belief that we are. 

This is not freedom. This is a prison, and it’s worse than any real prison. In a real prison you are fully aware that you are locked in. You are trapped. 

Life is more like when you put a frog in a pot of water and slowly make it boil. The frog will stay in the water because the temperature increase is so gradual it doesn’t notice. 

Losing your freedom is that slow to boil pot of water. Before you know it any freedom you thought you had is dead. And there is no way to get it back. 

I can’t go back. 

The bonds of life tether me here, keeping me farther from freedom and farther from him. 

And so I drive, putting the pedal closer to the floor and turning up the radio. 

When I arrive home I lug my suitcase to my bedroom and get it on the bed. 

I grab the zipper and stop. I push the suitcase a bit farther from my body and turn leaving the room. 

I walk into kitchen, grab a beer from the fridge and take a seat on my couch. I pull my cell phone from my pocket. 

There are no messages on my phone. Not that I should expect any. And yet I do. 

I open my beer my take my first sip. 

The next day I force myself out of bed, just as the sun rises. I pull on my running shoes, pop in my headphones and run. The fact that I have no new texts or missed calls doesn’t surprise me. But it doesn’t sting any less. 

I shower, take too long to pick out my clothes, and dab on some mascara. 

When I walk into the office my coworker, Susan greets me, a little more enthusiastically than I’m ready for.

I smile, but it feels more like a grimace. 

“How was the vacation?” Susan asks. 

“Too good,” I say. 

“Yeah. They are always too short. Well it’s good to have you back.”

With that she puts a stack of papers in my hands. 

“Ah, I see,” I say. 

I glance towards my bosses office. 

“Is Matt gonna be in today?” I ask. 

“I believe so,” Susan says heading back to her desk. 

I turn back towards my computer and set the stack of papers next to it. 

I glance out the window. No bodies of water to be found, and the sun is hidden behind the clouds. It’s easy to forget there’s anything else in this beautiful world. 

I stand and head to the break room. The coffee pot is half empty. I may have to be here but I don’t have to drink stale coffee. I dump it down the drain and work to brew a new cup. 

I hear a sound behind me and feel hairs raise on the back of my neck. 

“Good Morning,” Matt says. 

“Good Morning,” I say. I cringe, feeling as if my voice sounds small and weak. 

“Fresh coffee? Can you bring me a cup when it’s finished?”

“Yes, I can do that.” 

Matt leaves the room and I can breathe again. 

I stand at the counter and watch every last drop from the coffee pot. A feeling of shakiness fills my body. I’m simultaneously looking forward to the next few moments and frightened. 

I grab two paper cups and fill each one with coffee and two creamers and then lid them. 

I walk through the office feeling my hands shake. I’m certain everyone can tell. 

I knock before entering his office and set his cup in front of him. 

“Thank you,” he says. 

He looks up at me and then back down at his papers. The glance makes my stomach flip. 

“How was your vacation?” He asks. 

“Very good,” I say. “Kind of wish it never ended.”

“Nothing lasts forever,” he says. 

I struggle to search for a response but I have none. 

“If you need anything let me know,” he says. 

I turn to leave. At the doorway I give a small glance over my shoulder. He is typing away at his computer, not even aware I’m still here. I head back to my desk. 

It’s as if none of it happened. As if we didn’t escape to paradise together. But the memory of the way he coyly looked at me and asked me out there still burns in my brain. The way he kissed me as if I was the only person in the world still stains my lips. 

I can’t tell if he’s pretending it never happened because he has to, in order to keep his job, or because what happened didn’t mean anything to him. 

Deep down I know the truth. That he can never be mine. That the one person I may very well be meant to be with can never be with me. Because freedom in this life is purely an illusion. Because having a good job and making an income ranks higher than true happiness, than true purpose. 

From that last glance, in his office, I can already feel the scars forming on my heart.