Kansas Rhodes
Chapter One
There are two things in life that I am certain of. 1.) Books are the only trustworthy creatures in existence, and 2.) Mrs. Peterson makes the best peach cobbler you could ever dream of.
But none of that matters anymore because the people who appreciated those two facts as much as I did are now gone.
It’s been 45 hours since I found out the tragic news. 45 long and confusing hours. And as I drive along Interstate 75, my attention struggling to keep up the routine of road, road, road, speedometer, road, repeat, I find myself regrettably thinking about those past two days.
You see, when the Peterson’s came to the door, with their faces not how they usually were, I didn’t know what to expect. Literally. I can’t ‘read’ people like everyone else. I can’t ‘assume’ anything about others. I just can’t. So when they told me what had happened, sure, I was pretty inconsolable, but I didn’t know how to react or what to say, which is why I didn’t say anything at all. Mrs. Peterson was balling her eyes out and that seemed like a reasonable response (or so it does in the movies) but I just stood there in silence, staring at the couple.
After a moment of watching Mr. Peterson console his wife, I turned and walked back to the living room to continue watching the TV. My neighbours followed suit, the two passing glances and unspoken words to each other.
They know how I am, they know of my inability to socialise and be ‘ordinary’, therefore they understood that this was simply my way of digesting the information.
I haven’t cried once. Not a single tear. Yet, it feels like there is this mass of sadness deep in my chest, trying to make its way up my throat. I can feel that more than anything else. But my brain won’t respond to it. Instead, it picks up on everything else around me. Like how the sun dances off the cars I pass, how the warm smell of freshly cut crops fills the air flowing through my hair, how the side of the road gets closer and closer until I-
“Crap!” I yell to myself, taking control of my sweet baby once again and searching for a good place to turn off and park. The honking from other drivers earns them a middle finger salute from yours truly.
Switching off the engine, I unbuckle my seatbelt and relax into the leather chair, deciding to be safe than sorry. I take out the road map from the glove compartment and open it up, spreading it along the steering wheel and dash. I’ve been driving for an hour, heading North towards Atlanta, which is where I will decide the direction to go in next. It may seem rather reckless, but that’s exactly why I want to do it.
Like Mrs. Peterson said, I need to do something for me and no one else.
So yeah, I don’t exactly know where I’m going. I don’t know if this is normal, nor do I know how I should be feeling at this precise moment. I don’t really know anything anymore; my life’s compass shattered at the same instant my parents died.
But one thing’s for sure, I’m finally going to live my life. And that’s pretty damn exciting.
But none of that matters anymore because the people who appreciated those two facts as much as I did are now gone.
It’s been 45 hours since I found out the tragic news. 45 long and confusing hours. And as I drive along Interstate 75, my attention struggling to keep up the routine of road, road, road, speedometer, road, repeat, I find myself regrettably thinking about those past two days.
You see, when the Peterson’s came to the door, with their faces not how they usually were, I didn’t know what to expect. Literally. I can’t ‘read’ people like everyone else. I can’t ‘assume’ anything about others. I just can’t. So when they told me what had happened, sure, I was pretty inconsolable, but I didn’t know how to react or what to say, which is why I didn’t say anything at all. Mrs. Peterson was balling her eyes out and that seemed like a reasonable response (or so it does in the movies) but I just stood there in silence, staring at the couple.
After a moment of watching Mr. Peterson console his wife, I turned and walked back to the living room to continue watching the TV. My neighbours followed suit, the two passing glances and unspoken words to each other.
They know how I am, they know of my inability to socialise and be ‘ordinary’, therefore they understood that this was simply my way of digesting the information.
I haven’t cried once. Not a single tear. Yet, it feels like there is this mass of sadness deep in my chest, trying to make its way up my throat. I can feel that more than anything else. But my brain won’t respond to it. Instead, it picks up on everything else around me. Like how the sun dances off the cars I pass, how the warm smell of freshly cut crops fills the air flowing through my hair, how the side of the road gets closer and closer until I-
“Crap!” I yell to myself, taking control of my sweet baby once again and searching for a good place to turn off and park. The honking from other drivers earns them a middle finger salute from yours truly.
Switching off the engine, I unbuckle my seatbelt and relax into the leather chair, deciding to be safe than sorry. I take out the road map from the glove compartment and open it up, spreading it along the steering wheel and dash. I’ve been driving for an hour, heading North towards Atlanta, which is where I will decide the direction to go in next. It may seem rather reckless, but that’s exactly why I want to do it.
Like Mrs. Peterson said, I need to do something for me and no one else.
So yeah, I don’t exactly know where I’m going. I don’t know if this is normal, nor do I know how I should be feeling at this precise moment. I don’t really know anything anymore; my life’s compass shattered at the same instant my parents died.
But one thing’s for sure, I’m finally going to live my life. And that’s pretty damn exciting.
♠ ♠ ♠
A little introduction.