Page 9 of Don’t Forget Me

It was fine, though. I wasn’t planning on ever coming back to the States. I refused to be on the same soil as this man, as the woman who abandoned me, and the people who refused to help me. I had worked to save up enough money to live off of while I found a new job in Scotland. My savings would serve as a backup plan in case of an emergency.

I would not wait another second to leave. I lived in California, but didn’t believe in the illusion of it at all. My residence was in the most cursed city of the entire state. Whoever was born in this place had to carry an anathema their entire life. No one who came from the Valley is known to ever “make it”. No one from this place was successful.

But I will be.

They would all regret their negligence, their silence, and their uncertainty. All of it.

My success would be my revenge.

And that was my determination as I zipped up my last baggage. I was leaving today. While it was still night, I’d be departing. The cab would be here soon, and my drunken stepfather had already locked himself in his room. I was going to leave without saying goodbye because he wasn’t worthy of one.

He had no remorse when he broke me, so I would not have regret when leaving him.

Once I was outside, waiting, I thought about how hard winters would be like in Edinburgh.

The brakes of the yellow cab screeched slightly, causing me to hiss. I looked back at the crumpling trailer that I had called home for way too long. My mother left me in this home. She ran away. And I was about to follow in her footsteps; maybe that was the only good example she set for me.

I quietly walked toward the passenger side of the cab, the woman in the front of the car pressed on the window button.

“Hola, buenas noches. Está bien si coloco mi equipaje en su cajuela?” After greeting her, I asked if she would let me put my luggage in the trunk of her cab.

“Claro, mija.” She agreed, motioning toward the back of the cab. She gave me that nickname. The one I heard every parent tell their kids. Mija or Mijo, which meant daughter or son. No one had ever called me that before.

“Muchas gracias,” I thanked her.

Pulling my luggage into the back of the vehicle.

I froze when the trunk slammed shut and I realized I had left my passport in my room. What if he caught me when I went back inside? My grand exit would go up in smoke.

I looked back at the broken trailer.

“Ahorita vuelvo, se me olvidó algo.” I quickly let her know that I’d be back.

“Okay, está bien mija,” the woman chirped, saying that it was okay.

I ran back inside, careful not to trudge too harshly upon the steps or pull the door open with unnecessary strength. But once I was inside, it was too late to go back out. He was standing there with another bottle, staring at me with a deep frown on his face.

“Where are you going?” he asked groggily, his eyes bloodshot.

“Nowhere. I’m just cleaning up and throwing out the trash,” I replied, rushing to my room, hoping that he wasn’t behind me. But his shuffling footsteps were already closing in on me. When I pushed the door to my room open, my passport was on top of the bed. I rushed to it, setting it safely inside the pocket of my jacket and zipping it up to ensure it didn’t fall out.

Mario was standing by the threshold of my bedroom. I stood idly, shifting from one foot to the other, my fingers trembling. Hoping he wouldn’t follow me out, praying to God that he collapsed before he saw me leave, wishing that he would just let me go.

“I need your help with something,” he said, a slight smirk appearing over his chapped lips. Small crescents formed on my palms, my fists sinking deeply into them. Mario grasped my arms, pulling me closer to his body. My face contorted in disgust toward him and his bad breath. His rough hand began to snake around my waist. Bile inched up my throat.

I pushed him with all my strength, and even I was surprised when his back clattered against the picture frames hung on the hallway wall. “Don’t touch me!”

“Hey! What the hell?” His face grew red with anger when he realized what I’d done.

The cab lady was outside, waiting for me, with my luggage in her car. What if she left? She seemed like a nice woman, but I couldn’t trust anyone. “I have somewhere to be.”

“A dónde crees que vas?” His voice ripped through my eardrums as we marched through the shattered hallway of the trailer. He questioned where I was going.

“No te incumbe,” I replied, telling him it was none of his business.

“You belong to me. Of course I need to know where you’re going!”

Rage ripped through me. All of these years, I had choked back my anger, my frustration, and my hate him. The hell he put me through ended today. I was leaving this place. I was leaving everything behind, especially him.