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I live a lonely life, but I’ve grown used to it. It’s just the way it is. It doesn’t help to question something you can’t change. It’s better to just accept that it’s the way my life is going to be.
I now go by the name of Cassy Smith, my mother’s name. Cassy is short for Cassandra and Smith was her maiden name. That was a nice thing of Uncle Tom to do. I feel closer to her that way.
I still don’t understand any of the things that happened to me when I was eighteen. No, I’m lying. I understand the pain, because it’s the only thing that was real and constant.
I don’t understand what happened on the boat, or to my parents. I don’t understand why I had to leave, and why Uncle Tom left me.
I’ve come to the conclusion that life is not meant to be understood – trying will only drive you insane. Life is just meant to be lived, every day a new day with its own problems.
I’ve been in the US for seven years. Lucky number seven … right? I can’t use my passport anymore. It was only valid for three months, but that was all I needed to find my first job, which was cleaning toilets at a truck stop. It was a shitty job but that’s why they let me work there in the first place. Cheap labor.
I keep moving, just like Uncle Tom said. I don’t stay longer than two months in one spot. I’ve been here six weeks already and I’m feeling the familiar itch to run.
I don’t make friends and I sure as hell don’t grow attached to anyone, and that’s the reason why I had to push Steven away. I could see more with him. If you can see more with someone, it usually means trouble. When you’re on the run, getting attached to another person is like carrying a dead weight around your neck.
I thought it was a good thing to hook up with him for one night, seeing as he was traveling through Scappoose. He only came to hunt some deer, then he’d head back home.
We had sex, nothing spectacular, but it soothed the craving for another human’s touch.
He never left. I’ve seen him hanging around at the local bar, so I stopped going there.
It’s time to leave. I can feel it in my gut.
888
I shrug on my jacket that’s seen better days and I make sure the heater we keep under the counter is off. This store is already an ice box and it’s not even winter yet.
While Mr. Johnson locks up in the back where his workshop is, I quickly take out my food for the day. The water in the urn is still warm, so I just pour some over the cup o’ noodles and then wait for Mr. Johnson.
He comes shuffling out of his workshop, and I open the front door so he can just keep shuffling by me. I don’t want him to slow down, because then he will find a hundred things to do and I’ll be stuck here longer.
Using my foot as a doorstop, I quickly turn the open sign so it shows closed. When we’re both out of the store, Mr. Johnson locks the door. He waves tiredly at me, before he shuffles slowly down the sidewalk. I guess I should go home, too.
Home.
There is no such place for me. I move from shady motel to even shadier motel. That’s been my life since I ran away from that hospital. I had to run, not for fear of my life, but because I had no way of paying the huge bill. I snuck out like a thief in the night.
I walk slowly and test the heat of my dinner with the tip of my finger. It’s cooled down already. I stick my finger in the cup and stir until it looks good enough to swallow. When you’ve been living off cup o’ noodles for years, you don’t chew, you just swallow so the stuff can fill your growling stomach. Chewing, now that is reserved for tacos, or pizza, or burgers … sigh.
“Hi,” I hear someone call behind me. I look over my shoulder and see Steven jogging towards me.
“Well, this sucks,” I mutter.
He catches up to me and throws his arm around my shoulders. “Where are we going?”
“We?” Oh, buddy, you have high hopes. “We aren’t going anywhere. I’m going home.”
“I’ll walk with you,” he says way too cheerfully, as if he’ll be getting lucky tonight.
“I’m fine by myself.” I shrug his arm away from my shoulders and walk faster.
“Oh, come on, babe. We had a good time the other night.”
I stop dead in my tracks and glare at him. “One night stand,” I spell the words out for him holding up one finger for emphasis. “That’s not happening again.”
He takes hold of my hand, quite a tight grip, and he starts to pull me into the street.
“I said no, asshole,” I snap, trying to yank my arm free. Alarm bells start to sound through me and nervous tension washes over me.
