Escapism

“Get on the ground, now!”

The man in front of me stumbled backwards, his sweaty back pressed up against me as the woman in front of him was tackled to the ground by an officer. The officer ripped a document from her shaking hands, and held it up to one of the travel officials. “It’s forged, sir—her Terms of Travel sheet. She never agreed to the real terms, and so I have reason to believe this woman intends to tamper with the butterfly effect.”

The woman’s eyes widened in horror, and the travel official’s blank expression didn’t falter. He stood up a little taller, glaring down at her with authority, and then nodded at the officer who promptly spoke. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can, and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand the rights I have just read to you? With these rights in mind, do you wish to speak to me?”

I felt the man in front of me tense, and whispers of disbelief began to circulate in the varying queues around me. Taking advantage of the butterfly effect was punishable by death, and she should’ve been smart enough to know her plan would be in vain. I felt nothing—no pity. 

The woman was escorted out of the building, tears flowing down her cheeks, as she screamed for forgiveness—forgiveness I was certain she would not receive. 

“I was just trying to save my son!! My beautiful, beautiful son! He passed away two years ago, he—”

“Next.”

The line shifted forward, and the scent in the room changed too. Every person crammed in the small, crowded building smelt different. This time the man to my left donned the suffocating smell of cigarettes and cheap cologne, and the woman to my right smelt of pungent floral perfume. I sunk a little deeper into my puffer jacket, stifling a cough, and trying to focus anywhere but the line.

I’ve always been a little claustrophobic, and being aware that I was quite literally drowning in a sea of bodies did not put me at ease. I was too short to see over top most of the people’s heads, and so I looked up at the ceiling. It was a popcorn ceiling, seemingly covered in yellow stains—though I have no idea how one could stain a ceiling when standing below it. Honestly, I didn’t want to know. 

“Excuse me, boy.” A deep, raspy voice came behind me, and I turned, startled. A tall, chubby man with a greying beard loomed over me. He was wearing an army green jacket with a fur hood, and black cargo pants. His feet were bare. 

“Yeah?"

“Got any money to spare? I’ll pay y’back later, I promise.”

I narrowed my eyes at the man, and tucked my hands into my pockets, making sure nothing was, or could be stolen from me. 

“I don’t.”

“I know you do. C’mon... Why not just help an old man out, eh?”

“No, thanks."

He didn’t seem happy with that answer. The man grabbed me by my hood, so I promptly kicked him in the nuts, and pushed my way through the crowd to a spot near the front of the line. The blonde-haired woman I cut in front of said nothing—just smiled weakly as I squished in between her, and the man ahead.

A few minutes later, the lady handling the queue to my right gestured for me to come to the front of her line. Her mouth was drawn into a thin line. Confused, I walked over to her desk, my hands still buried in my jacket. 

“Sir, are eighteen or older?”

I nodded, but she didn’t look convinced. The lady typed something up on her computer before continuing. It was strange not to hear the clicks of her keyboard—the room was so loud I could barely hear myself think.

“May I please see your passport?”

I stared blankly at her for a moment, trying to process what she said through the chatter around the room, and then nodded.

I dug through my deep pockets, sifting through my documents, identification cards, and other personal belongings. After a moment, I pulled out the passport, opened it to the correct page, and slid it face up onto her desk. She squinted as she read it.

“Oscar Nolan, January 12th, 2023… Happy seventeenth birthday, but I’m afraid I cannot let minors travel.” She slid it back over to me, and then I slid it back to her. “Eighteenth birthday, ma’am. But thanks.” She reread the date, and then smiled. “Oh! Oh, you’re right. My mistake. Sorry, hun…” More muted typing.

“Just out of curiosity, where are your parents? I never see people wanting to travel so young.” She smiled at me warmly, her eyes creasing at the corners. I didn’t return the gesture.

“My parents? They’re probably crying.”

The lady’s face fell, and she nodded awkwardly. “Do you have your character profile with you, sir?”

“Yes.”

The paper was crumpled from being in my pocket, but she accepted it nonetheless and began to read it aloud.

“Liam Carlson, eighteen years old, living alone in Charlottesville, Virginia in the year 1980…” Even more typing.

“Alright. It looks like you’re already registered in our system and have signed the Terms of Travel document online… but did not pay upfront. The travelling fee is $20,000, with an additional $100 fee if needed to fund the appropriate clothing,” The lady looked me up and down, and nodded when she saw I hadn't brought anything with me. “which I assume you will not be providing on your own, Mr. Nolan?”

“No, ma’am. I’ll pay for them now.”

She looked surprised, despite knowing I didn’t bring my own clothes.

“Okay, your total is $22,713. How will you be paying?”

“Check.”

I heard the voices around the room begin to rise in volume, and intensity upon hearing me speak—desperate pleads, beckoning me to spare some money for their fees. I blocked them out, and didn’t dare turn to look back at their pitiful faces.

After the transaction was complete, the woman marked my character profile sheet with a blue stamp that read approved, and escorted me to a separate room where I waited impatiently for the person who would prepare me for travel.

I will admit, I did start to feel a little nervous about what would follow, but I knew I couldn’t go home. Back there, my family waited in our run-down trailer with the little money I left them. I bet Mom was on her knees praying that by some miracle I would come back for them, and Dad was trying and failing to console her. I wouldn’t be back, they should know that.

I’m starting a new life away from them—away from here, and they don’t have the means to follow me.