Going Somewhere

I walked through the double doors of my home and shut them silently behind me, shook out my umbrella, and tried to slip my sneakers off as quietly as I could. I smiled victoriously as I realized that I didn’t hear the clack of approaching high-heeled shoes, and sprinted for the carpeted staircase in front of me.

“Not so fast, Emma,” my mother tutted from behind me, sounding more cartoonishly villainous than I could ever possibly fathom, “It’s been an hour since you’ve called, what the hell took you so long?”

I slowly turned around to face her disapproving expression. Her brows were furrowed in a look of disdain; her ruby lips taut; her hands clutching her hips; and her stiletto heel tapping against the tile with raging impatience. This was not going to end well.

“My cellphone broke, and—” I hesitated, knowing very well that she would not at all like what she was about to hear, “I got lost,” I whispered rapidly.

“What?” she questioned incredulously, tucking a lock of shining golden hair behind her ear.

“Yes, mother, I got lost. It happens to us mere mortals sometimes,” I rolled my eyes and spoke slowly and quietly, as if to a misbehaving child.

“Do not speak to me like that, young lady,” she whispered dangerously through pursed lips. As I stared at the disapproval in her eyes, something inside of me snapped—fury pulsed through my veins, my heartbeat quickened; I was blinded by a sudden urge to scream.

“I’m so sick of being told not to do things, mom! I’m not perfect, I’m not you!” I shouted, grasping the railing of the staircase tightly. I would never be my mother, I would always be a sharp contrast to her. Her unblemished, tan skin taunted mine, as it was pale and freckled. She had glowing cerulean irises, while mine were a dull, lifeless gray. Her hair was blonde and immaculate, never a hair out of place; mine was a limp, oddly wavy auburn. My mother’s pupils bore into mine, and she heaved a sigh.

“I don’t expect you to be perfect, I just want you to listen to me for once, Em!” she walked up to me and extended a pristine, manicured hand; placing it on my shoulder, “I want you to do something with your life, you’ve spent such a long time doing absolutely nothing.”

“I’m turning twenty, I’ve been putting college off for almost two years. I don’t know what I want to do with my life anymore; the motivation has been sucked out of me.” I violently shook her hand off of my shoulder and averted my eyes from her view.

“So now you don’t want to do anything… that’s just great,” she put a hand to her forehead and squeezed her eyes shut, “ How could you be so irresponsible? Haven’t I taught you anything?” I stared blankly at her, awestruck and wounded.

“Yes,” I finally murmured softly, “Yes, you've taught me a lot, actually. You taught me to be a responsible and polite, to never misbehave. You taught me to always do my best in school, to be absolutely perfect. You taught me to over think things. You taught me to be paranoid. You taught me how not to live. What has that all left me with? Nothing. I want to live! I don’t want to be like this anymore!”

Her mouth gaped open, and the room fell to silence. My words echoed off the walls, and resonated in the thick air. They escaped from my tongue and clung to our ears. My mother remained in quiet shock, and the atmosphere was filled with hurt and palpable confusion.

When my mother finally did speak, her words came out in nothing more than a diminutive whisper. “Go to your room.” I silently obeyed, turning my back to her and trudging up the stairs. I walked into my room and slammed the door behind me.

There were no more options, I was at the end of my rope. I knew exactly what had to be done. I set my alarm clock to ring two hours earlier and lowered the volume. I threw a small, worn suitcase onto my bed and rummaged through my closet, packing the luggage with only necessities. There was one final thing I had to do: I ripped out a piece of paper from my notebook and uncapped a red marker that was lying on my desk.

Tomorrow, when she woke, my mother would find nothing but the shattered remains of my cell phone piled on top of a crumpled sheet of lined paper—one with a message scrawled messily in red ink:

“Mom, You’re probably wondering where I am right now, and I’ll be honest, so am I. Regardless of where I am, don’t worry about me, this is all for the best. This won’t be the last you’ll hear of me, I’ll call you every once in a while from payphones, and I’ll always think of you. I’m not running away, I’m going on a journey. I’ll be back eventually, once I figure out how to live for once in my life. Love you, Emma”