A Fragment

A chill, desert wind amplifies the trembling of my hands as I fumble through my jacket pockets. I’m taking inventory. ID card, pills, inhalers, cash, cigarettes, matches, a folding knife, a mini water bottle filled with high-proof alcohol. My head is swimming, my heart, pounding. I’m seated on a highway guardrail just opposite the rumble strip which separates my childhood home from the unknown, open road. It’s near dawn; the fleeting, frigid, crepuscular moment at which all seems to be briefly suspended in a state of deep peace. Satisfied that all intended items have indeed been successfully brought along, I pull a hand from my pocket, and raise it, gently probing the tender area surrounding my right eye. Trepidatiously, I test how prominent the swelling still feels. It’s been three days, maybe four, since I received a severe blow to the right side of my face, resulting in considerable edema, bruising, and a strikingly noticeable black eye. The swelling has gone down substantially. “Thank goodness” I sigh. I am twelve years old, and I’m fantasizing. Imagining, nervously, what would happen if I were to flag down the next passing vehicle. Mentally following a familiar, hypothetical timeline, wherein I place my fate in the hands of the first driver who opens their passenger door to me, recklessly hitchhiking away to an unknowable destination. This is my daily routine. Every morning, before the chaos of the day begins to unfold, when the household is still precariously perched in the nighttime’s tenuous sense of calm, I gather my most critical belongings, walk the quarter-mile along our country drive, up to the main road, to dream of leaving it all far, far behind. 

Emily BensonComment