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I bite down on my thumb to stop myself from breaking out into sobs. And I wonder if I imagined those grimy trails streaking her cheeks.
I start walkingalong the road, with no idea where I’m going. My night vision is sharp, but before long, I’m blinded by tears.
Not my mother?
I don’t know what’s worse—having a mother who doesn’t love me, or realizing she didn’t love me because she wasn’t even my mother.
It’s hard to breathe, as if there’s a band tightening itself around my chest, and I turn clumsy, uncoordinated. I stumble on the hard road surface. Nothing but darkness all around. I trudge for I don’t know how long. Miles maybe, my feet plodding and slow. Blacktop, grass verge and starless sky. My backpack, containing my every possession, is light compared to the all-consuming ache in my insides.
I’m so tired. My feet ache like crazy and, despite the fear charging my veins, I let off epic yawns, one after another.
At last, the highway ends. There’s a soft rushing sound and the sharp smell of river water. I head toward it, soothed by the signs of nature.
I come to an old wooden bridge. Maybe I can shelter underneath it for the night. But the bank is hella muddy, I realize too late. My left foot slips, then my right, and suddenly I’m tumbling, all the way down the steep bank. I panic as the water rushes up to meet me. I’m not a good swimmer.
Then a patch of mud breaks my fall. Thick, stinking river mud.
It sucks at my feet and I feel like it wants me. Wants to draw me into its dark embrace.
I know I should fight it.
But I’m too exhausted and sad.
Instead, I scramble under the bridge and curl up.
Waiting for whatever might come.
