Remember Last Knight

running towards my problems


It’s not a good day, I figure out, as soon as I pull up to Elle’s and find her pacing by the side of her house, wearing shorts and a tank top, sweaty from running. I haven’t even put the car into park by the time she’s opening the car door, slamming it behind her, hissing in my ear to drive.

I back out of the drive, taking the loop around the neighborhood to get out. Elle’s fiddling with the radio, then her window, then the radio again, seated oddly in her seat with her right knee pulled to her chest and her left pulled under that. She’s not looking at me, just fiddling with the radio volume and stations.

“What’s going on?” I ask, finally pulling out of the neighborhood. She does nothing, doesn’t even shake her head, just continues to stare out her half rolled window. I repeat, “What’s going on, Elle?”

“Nothing, Knight, nothing! It doesn’t fucking matter.” I adjust my grip on the steering wheel, straightening my fingers, wrapping them around the leather again. I take a breath, take a look to my left at her, before swinging a sudden right into the entrance of an in-progress subdivision.

“Okay, okay, what is up with all the stopping? You’re always stopping the fucking car, here or there and every fucking place we go, okay, do you have some type of issue with driving me around, Knight?”

“Elle, if you don’t give me some kind of an explanation now, I’m taking you home, where I know you sure as hell don’t want to be.”

“Oh, yeah? How do you know that, huh? For all you know, you could be my problem, ever think of that?”

I take a deep breath, steadying my voice. “I know I’m not your problem, because you’re a runner, Elle. You used to be a fighter, and you would stick up for you and only you, but now you’re a runner, which means you run from what you used to confront. So, yeah, I kinda do know that it’s not me that’s your problem, and I’d kinda like it if you explained what the hell is going on.”

“I could still be a fighter, Knight. You think I’m so fucking desperate and fragile, don’t you, but I’m not. How do you not know that I’m still a fighter, and that I’m running towards my problem, you, to confront you, ‘cause right now, that’s what I feel like doing.”

“Fine, Elle. Hit me. Take your best shot. I hope you hit me hard. I hope it’s good, y’know, since we all know that fighting has solved all of your other problems.”

She’s quiet. I’m quiet. I watch as the red letters of the clock tick by. 1:45.



1:48. 1:49. 1:50. 1:51.

I start the car again, taking a wide left and pulling back out onto the main road.


I don’t know where we’re going. I don’t care if we drive and drive and drive and never stop at this point. I could care less.

All I know is, I’m tired.

I’m tired of my parents. I’m tired of coming home to an empty house, or worse, to my brother, home alone. I’m tired of watching my parents stroll in from “work” with their ties hanging loose and their heels pinched between their fingers. I’m tired of not being able to talk, or yell, or do a thing. I’m tired of watching my brother avoid meals, tired of “guests” coming over and “midnight errands” by my dad. I’m tired of feeling so enclosed in a house, not being able to leave, and not being able to breathe.

I want release.

I close my eyes, thinking of the last time I’d asked for release. I’d went out to leave the trouble of home, only to be encountered with the trouble of the real world. Or, my world. I’d went out and couldn’t even get release, seeing as everything I did turned to hell. My life, for example.

I breath in, my left hand reaching out, searching. I hit console, then leather, then leg. I relax some as another hand finds mine, still willing to hold me. I don’t know what I’d do without this release. My only release.

Knight, who holds me when the hell of life takes a bite. Knight, who lets me yell and scream and feel the anger I can’t release otherwise. Knight, who yells back because I need it, and he needs it to. Knight, who even after the hell I’ve dragged him into, wants me still.
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