Boxes were stacked up around me precariously, closing in around me. I never liked moving- not that anybody really enjoys it, but I've always hated it more than most. To see the memories- my world- packed tightly into cardboard boxes and thrown into the back of a moving vehicle, it was unbearable. Like seeing yourself already being forgotten in the place that you used to belong to. Or watching that place go on unchanging, while you are forced to feel the difference. Heartbreaking.
I hear my mother open the door behind me. I could only imagine what she looks like, hand resting against the doorknob, short blonde hair like a mini-tumbleweed framing her face. Before she even speaks, I can feel the exhaustion emanating off of her like an aura. Her shoulders were probably slouched from the days exertion and her eyes, no doubt, were sunk into her skull, as well.
The years have been hard on her. Wrinkles, one by one, etching themselves into her face, around her eyes, in her forehead, and creasing around her mouth. Her body slowly decaying, finally breaking down from the years of abuse- unable to keep up with the activities of the fourteen year old girl just dying to break free from her body.
"Hey, kiddo, we're almost out of here. Is there anything that you need to grab? Toothbrush? Socks? To get you through the night before we finish moving tomorrow?"
I hesitate, not turning around, as I ask inquiringly, "A lobotomy?"
All she does is sigh, feigning the enduring mother, "We'll be waiting downstairs when you're ready."
I could feel the frustration well up in my chest right about then. The anger at not being able to change the outcome of the situation- or at least stop any more damage resulting from this nightmare. My hand closes around the dog tag hanging from my neck. The words etched into its surface, soothing the irritated nerves of my psyche.
How could things have gone so wrong, in such little time? And its happening all so fast, my nerves unable to recover from the initial shell shock- a result of insufficient time for recuperation. If there really was such a thing. Enough time- that is- but, hey, what do I know? They say time heals all wounds.
Just the thought of this amplifies the pain rippling around my heart and I don't know what to do. I want to do anything. Scream. Cry. Drink. Something, to lessen this hold in my chest, but I don't. I just turn away, grab my bag, and go to meet my family in the car.