Shoving handfuls of paper bills into your pockets you yelled at me to hurry up. Scrambling in my room, picking things up and putting them down again drowning in indecision, unable to decide what I truly needed - I hated you for making me rush. Do I bring the stuffed elephant from my mother or the rugby trophy from 2003? Maybe just my toothbrush. It's hard to decide what's truly important when your life gets turned upside down.
You were a ball of fire, perspiring and running around destroying everything you touched in your hurry. Your speed made me want to stop, slow down, as though you were sucking your velocity out of me and thus rendering me absolutely completely stationary.
I didn't want to leave. I didn't care. But you dragged me out, despite my pleas and tears you dragged me as gently as you could (but forcefully) and took me into the beat-up van you bought from Mr. Thindley down the road. I sat in the passenger seat (you buckled me up) bawling into my hands as you got in front of the wheel and eased the ugly vehicle onto the road.
Three hours later I was silent. Not numb but buzzing and still. My mouth was dry and there was no point to words anyways. The mental inventory in my head (things I could've, should've, would've taken) was driving me absolutely crazy. Clutching the side of the car gave me the illusion that I was holding on to something, that I had kept something after all.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
I couldn't leave, you know I couldn't. You tried to make it work, to help us to a new life, but you were so blind - the money never mattered to me like it did to you. Going 150 down the highway I glanced at you briefly before swiftly unbuckling, wrenching the door open, and vaulting myself out of the van.
It's funny how often we lose sight of what's important.
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