Esme
I turn off the lights and head downstairs. My only plan is to get out of this town as fast as possible. I don’t even know where I’m headed.
I start walking towards the bus stop. It’s about a twenty-minute walk and in my condition, I know it’ll take me longer.
But it doesn’t matter. I don’t want to waste money on a cab.
The streets have emptied out. Only a handful people walking around, a few already drunk after a long day of work.
This town is filled with sad outcasts like me. Day drinking and desperation follows them around like homeless animals.
I try not to judge. After all, I’m a homeless animal myself at the moment.
I start cramping halfway to the bus station, so I’m forced to stop and sit at a park bench to wince and stretch out my legs as best as I can.
But the second I sink onto the bench, the voice starts up.
You’re weak.
You’re pathetic.
You’re naïve. Can’t even save your own baby.
Lately, my head is filled with thoughts like these. Always in Papa’s voice. Like he lives in my head and lurks. A parasite. A virus. A taunting spirit that chimes in whenever I find a moment of silence.
I force myself to stand. The cramps start up again with a vengeance, but this time, I ignore them.
Fuck that voice. Fuck those thoughts.
I limp down the street with a scowl on my face and my hand white-knuckling the straps of the duffel bag to get through the pain.
When I finally turn into the bus station, I’m panting and sweating, but I push myself forward.
The man sitting behind the clerk counter is an older African-American man with an impressive white mustache.
“Good evening, sir,” I say quietly. “Can I have one of the bus schedules please?”
His eyes rake over me through the Plexi-glass. I wait patiently for him to finish his once-over.
“Where you headed, hon?” he asks.
“Um, I don’t know,” I admit. “That’s why I need the bus schedule.”
His expression doesn’t change so much as it softens. Then he pulls out a leaflet and hands it to me.
It’s a maze of weaving colored lines. There are so many bus routes that I know I won’t be able to decide where I’m going by just picking blindly.
“Excuse me a minute,” I tell him, moving to one of the benches a few yards away.
I sit down, relieved to be off my feet even for a few minutes. Then I comb through the bus schedules.
It takes me a minute, especially with the adrenaline still pumping in my system, but eventually I figure out that there are three different buses heading to three different towns in the next hour.
I’ve heard of none of these towns. Somehow, that leaves me feeling deflated. I realize how ill-equipped I am to make this choice at all.
The first bus leaving is in twenty minutes, but its destination is too close for my liking. I cross it off and move on to the second bus. Its destination is two hours away, a little better but it still doesn’t sit right with me for reasons I can’t explain.
But then, none of this does.