Missing
the rest is history
The day I leave is a Saturday. The traffic leaving Chicago is heavy, but coming into Chicago is even worse. Part of me is sad I can never come back-- Chicago is my home.
But that's exactly the problem. Chicago is Mea's home, not Celeste's, and I am Celeste now.
Deciding to alter my appearance has been the hardest part for me about my disappearance, but I can't risk being recognized. My natural hair color is a reddish brown, and I don't wear makeup regularly, except for special occasions. Celeste will be a black-haired beauty, partial to lipstick and carefully-done makeup reminiscent of an old Hollywood star. Having to conserve money, I figure I'll also lose weight over the course of my disappearance, adding more disparities to my new look.
I'll have a new wardrobe, as well. While Mea preferred expensive business dresses from Celeste Marcus, Celeste will be a bit more Target chic-- or Walmart, or Kmart, or Goodwill, or wherever I can find clothes that are cheap and unassuming.
I can't stand out at all. That's why going to the city is perfect-- no one stands out in New York City. I turn up the radio in my getaway car, and sing Taylor Swift at the top of my lungs, because while Mea would have pretended she'd never heard the song, struggling to appear as the disinterested 'cool girl' her asshole boyfriend had always wanted, Celeste knows all the words.
*
Jonathan never laid a hand on me. He's a egotistical douche-bag who measures his self-worth in his bank account, but he is not abusive.
Everyone will assume he is, though. They'll suspect he's got something to do with my disappearance. That he scared me off. Maybe they'll think he killed me, when I vanish as though I was never a part of his life. The irony is: I really wasn't. I didn't mean anything to Jonathan. That's why he threw our relationship away.
He might as well have been throwing me away, and I don't respond well to being cast aside. Maybe it's part of my only child complex.
When I first met Jonathan, it was at this little underground tavern in Harvard Square. I had gone with a friend, and while she was in the bathroom, some asshole who had to be at least 40 tried to flirt with me. I was 19. Jonathan had pretended he was my boyfriend to get the guy off of my back, and he was a charming MIT guy with a pretty smile and sharp humor. We fucked in the tavern bathroom, and as they say, the rest is history.
I won't say I regret every part of our time together. I didn't like fighting with him, towards the end, but we had some good times. The sex was fantastic before he started ignoring me to go cheat with the barely eighteen slut in our apartment building. One of the things Jonathan liked best about me when we were first together back in Cambridge was the fact that I kept my cool-- constantly, always, even when he was losing it. I wasn't crazy, like all those other Harvard girls.
Three weeks ago, I threw a plate at his head.
*
I've driven for five hours straight when I finally have to stop and get gas. It's almost 4:00, and I'm kind of hungry, but I can wait until later to eat. I still feel conspicuously close to home, even though Jonny dearest probably hasn't even noticed I'm gone yet. I have nothing to worry about, but I do anyway. I put $40 in my tank, and the cashier inside of the gas station gives me an obvious once-over as I slide him two twenties.
"What's a pretty thing like you doing in the middle of nowhere, Indiana?" he leers, his hand brushing mine as he takes my money.
I bite back my snide comments; my urge to call him out. Don't stand out. "Just passing through," I reply, smiling sweetly. "Put this money on pump 4, please."
The next exit on the highway is a strip mall with a Walmart, where I buy a few v-neck t-shirts in a few different colors to cycle through (black, gray, and white, to start), a couple of pairs of cheap jeans, new underwear, a couple of sports bras, and a pair of black combat boots. I also buy black hair dye, cheap makeup, a pair of large black reading glasses with a prescription so low I could conceivably wear them all the time, and a pair of scissors.
In the Walmart bathroom, I dye my hair jet-black, use the scissors to crop my hair straight across into a bob, and I line my eyes darkly in black. My lipstick is plum-colored; Revlon. I change into my new clothes-- the dark gray tee, the black ripped jeans, and the combat boots. I don't wear a bra underneath of the shirt, and the neckline is low around my nearly nonexistent chest. I slide the glasses onto my face and blink my eyes a few times to adjust.
I dry my hair underneath the Walmart hand-drier, and take a final glance in the mirror. I thought maybe I'd hate not looking like myself, after spending so much of my life carefully cultivating my appearance. In reality, I find I don't feel much either way.
As I'm leaving, I buy a bottle of water (one that I can keep filling up at rest stations from now on, to save myself a couple of dollars), an apple, and a bag of Baked Lays, which are on sale for twenty-five cents. My food for the whole day costs $1.17.
*
I've had my first day disappearance route planned out for months. I drive all day until I reach a tiny motel in Independence, Ohio, where I purchase their cheapest room-- a $30 night, single bed; radio, but no TV.
There's a little library full of shitty gas station books in the motel lobby, and I take one to read in my room. It occupies me for a couple of hours, and I fall asleep around midnight, setting my alarm for seven the next day, when I will go on the road again.
New York City, I think. I'd always wanted to visit.
But that's exactly the problem. Chicago is Mea's home, not Celeste's, and I am Celeste now.
Deciding to alter my appearance has been the hardest part for me about my disappearance, but I can't risk being recognized. My natural hair color is a reddish brown, and I don't wear makeup regularly, except for special occasions. Celeste will be a black-haired beauty, partial to lipstick and carefully-done makeup reminiscent of an old Hollywood star. Having to conserve money, I figure I'll also lose weight over the course of my disappearance, adding more disparities to my new look.
I'll have a new wardrobe, as well. While Mea preferred expensive business dresses from Celeste Marcus, Celeste will be a bit more Target chic-- or Walmart, or Kmart, or Goodwill, or wherever I can find clothes that are cheap and unassuming.
I can't stand out at all. That's why going to the city is perfect-- no one stands out in New York City. I turn up the radio in my getaway car, and sing Taylor Swift at the top of my lungs, because while Mea would have pretended she'd never heard the song, struggling to appear as the disinterested 'cool girl' her asshole boyfriend had always wanted, Celeste knows all the words.
*
Jonathan never laid a hand on me. He's a egotistical douche-bag who measures his self-worth in his bank account, but he is not abusive.
Everyone will assume he is, though. They'll suspect he's got something to do with my disappearance. That he scared me off. Maybe they'll think he killed me, when I vanish as though I was never a part of his life. The irony is: I really wasn't. I didn't mean anything to Jonathan. That's why he threw our relationship away.
He might as well have been throwing me away, and I don't respond well to being cast aside. Maybe it's part of my only child complex.
When I first met Jonathan, it was at this little underground tavern in Harvard Square. I had gone with a friend, and while she was in the bathroom, some asshole who had to be at least 40 tried to flirt with me. I was 19. Jonathan had pretended he was my boyfriend to get the guy off of my back, and he was a charming MIT guy with a pretty smile and sharp humor. We fucked in the tavern bathroom, and as they say, the rest is history.
I won't say I regret every part of our time together. I didn't like fighting with him, towards the end, but we had some good times. The sex was fantastic before he started ignoring me to go cheat with the barely eighteen slut in our apartment building. One of the things Jonathan liked best about me when we were first together back in Cambridge was the fact that I kept my cool-- constantly, always, even when he was losing it. I wasn't crazy, like all those other Harvard girls.
Three weeks ago, I threw a plate at his head.
*
I've driven for five hours straight when I finally have to stop and get gas. It's almost 4:00, and I'm kind of hungry, but I can wait until later to eat. I still feel conspicuously close to home, even though Jonny dearest probably hasn't even noticed I'm gone yet. I have nothing to worry about, but I do anyway. I put $40 in my tank, and the cashier inside of the gas station gives me an obvious once-over as I slide him two twenties.
"What's a pretty thing like you doing in the middle of nowhere, Indiana?" he leers, his hand brushing mine as he takes my money.
I bite back my snide comments; my urge to call him out. Don't stand out. "Just passing through," I reply, smiling sweetly. "Put this money on pump 4, please."
The next exit on the highway is a strip mall with a Walmart, where I buy a few v-neck t-shirts in a few different colors to cycle through (black, gray, and white, to start), a couple of pairs of cheap jeans, new underwear, a couple of sports bras, and a pair of black combat boots. I also buy black hair dye, cheap makeup, a pair of large black reading glasses with a prescription so low I could conceivably wear them all the time, and a pair of scissors.
In the Walmart bathroom, I dye my hair jet-black, use the scissors to crop my hair straight across into a bob, and I line my eyes darkly in black. My lipstick is plum-colored; Revlon. I change into my new clothes-- the dark gray tee, the black ripped jeans, and the combat boots. I don't wear a bra underneath of the shirt, and the neckline is low around my nearly nonexistent chest. I slide the glasses onto my face and blink my eyes a few times to adjust.
I dry my hair underneath the Walmart hand-drier, and take a final glance in the mirror. I thought maybe I'd hate not looking like myself, after spending so much of my life carefully cultivating my appearance. In reality, I find I don't feel much either way.
As I'm leaving, I buy a bottle of water (one that I can keep filling up at rest stations from now on, to save myself a couple of dollars), an apple, and a bag of Baked Lays, which are on sale for twenty-five cents. My food for the whole day costs $1.17.
*
I've had my first day disappearance route planned out for months. I drive all day until I reach a tiny motel in Independence, Ohio, where I purchase their cheapest room-- a $30 night, single bed; radio, but no TV.
There's a little library full of shitty gas station books in the motel lobby, and I take one to read in my room. It occupies me for a couple of hours, and I fall asleep around midnight, setting my alarm for seven the next day, when I will go on the road again.
New York City, I think. I'd always wanted to visit.
♠ ♠ ♠
Lol, I know I literally JUST posted the first chapter, but I had this one written too, so I figured I might as well. This one's mostly backstory, so sorry if it's a bit slow-- things'll pick up when Mea reaches NY. This is just meant to characterize her and her relationship with Jonathan.