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Emma glanced at the digital clock by the bed. Seven thirty-two. “I’m pretty tired. I think I’ll just head to sleep.” She pulled her ball cap off and flipped the bathroom light on, illuminating the dim hallway.
Link opened his mouth as if to argue, his eyes drawn to her face. His brows drew together in concern as he nodded. “I’d like to get on the road by eight if that’s good with you. Maybe get to Illinois tomorrow?”
“Sounds like a plan.” She undid her braid, running her fingers through it.
His eyes darted to the action. Licking his lips, he clenched his open fist by his side. “See you then. We’ll get breakfast at the diner next door and then gas up before we head out.” Link didn’t wait for her response. He left, the click of the door following him.
Needing to wash off the day, Emma stripped and climbed into the shower. The warm water sluiced over her skin. She blinked slowly. Her heart tore just a little more—an ache she’d grown used to. A hole she’d tried to fill with almost everything she could think of throughout her life except the one thing she’d never touch—what had killed her mother. In moments like this, she could almost sympathize with her mother for turning to heroin. Loving someone only to have them use you and leave carved, lasting scars . . . Why can’t I just shut it off? Her mother had chosen drugs, and in turn they’d taken her life. But they took her from me long before that. Or had she ever really had her mother’s love?
There was a few sacred memories Emma held locked away, with skinned knees and butterfly kisses. Moments where she was sure her mother had loved her. But that was before. Before her dad had left, taking the piece of her mother that destroyed her. And then she did the same to me. Anger quickly replaced the sympathy, merging with shame.
A buzzing sound filled her head as her body trembled. Somehow, she’d lost track of time. How long have I been in this freezing water? She shut the shower off and grabbed a thin towel to dry off. After shuffling to the bedroom, she opened her suitcase and quickly changed into the pajama shorts and T-shirt she’d packed. Then she ran a brush through her hair before twisting it into a messy bun on her head.
After tossing and turning for an hour in bed with no luck, she sat and pulled open her guitar case and collected the notebook and pen she kept inside. Settling on the edge of the bed, she took a deep breath.
She strummed a few chords that had been stuck in her head this past week as she prepared for her journey west. Emma hummed, closing her eyes and letting the music surround her, flow through her. She opened herself up, mind and spirit. This was her safe place, free of judgment, where the lyrics could flow through her. The one place she could truly speak what was in her heart. If it was too vulnerable, no one ever had to see it. But this way she could let the pain out. Let it bleed from her soul into words and music notes.
This struggle seems all too familiar.
This path overworn.
These lungs gasping for air.
This heart shattered yet again.
To love is not to breathe.
To give in is to die in darkness.
To quench this thirst is to starve my soul.
They tell me breathe. Just breathe.
When the flood comes and darkness reigns.
Hold on just a little longer.
Go a little farther.
Escape cuts just a little deeper until the ecstasy flows over, drowning me with endorphins coated in red.
Sick of all these disguises.
Time to get off my stage.
Got to channel this rage.
Who am I really?
A shell, numb and hollow.
Darkness pulling me under.
Suffocating in the open.
Alone in a crowd.
Silent screams swallowed by a fake smile.
