Page 75 of Existential
THIRTY-TWO
Dagne
My satchel weighs heavy in my hand as I run the strap through my closed fist. How pathetic is it that I can condense the important parts of my life down to a handful of belongings inside a twenty-dollar bag?
I had a bedroom once. Things that were mine. I could lie on the mattress with my stuffed unicorn in my arms and stare across at the second-hand poster of Disney princesses, imagining a world where no matter how you were wronged, somebody out there was waiting to save you.
Fairytales and folklore. Stories of a perfect world where forgiveness is easily given, and remorse brings the guilty to their knees in search of redemption.
Bullshit.
That’s all it is. Lies we tell ourselves to dampen the cold harsh reality of the world around us. Pain is inevitable, deceit as natural as taking your first step. People lie, and then they lie to themselves to justify the lie. It’s a cycle of false, fake, pretentious people fighting for the biggest share of the limelight.
A spotlight I’ve never had, and I don’t know if I ever want, either.
With a shake of my head, I slip the strap of the satchel over my shoulder and walk towards the door, purposefully avoiding catching a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror propped in the corner of the room. I don’t like this girl. She lets people walk all over her, so desperate to belong somewhere that she overlooks the obvious signs that those around her shouldn’t be trusted.
I really thought he was different; that somewhere underneath his harsh exterior was a genuine guy.
I guess I’m no less of a fool than I was the day I left home. What’s it going to take for me to be able to read people right? Will I ever recognize the man who’ll treat me how I deserve, or am I destined to be stuck on this merry-go-round of naivety for life?
Half the clubhouse have turned in for the night, the other half split evenly between those who are filling the halls with the lurid sounds of sex and debauchery, those who find solace in drinking away their reality, and the few who stick around to clean up after both.
I slip down the stairs, checking both ways for any sign of the two men I’m hoping to avoid. The downstairs halls are quiet, the lights in the kitchen off. A couple of the southern men still congregate at the bar, but to my relief they pay me no mind as I walk by to head for the exit.
Where will I go? I have no idea. But the fact I’m freshly showered, there’s a day’s worth of food and water in my bag, and my legs are rested from several weeks staying put, means I have time to work it out.
I make it out the external door and suck in a deep breath, relishing the comforting smell of crisp night air. It’s just me, nature, and—
“Where you goin’?”
—Dog. Damn it.
“For a walk.” I clutch my strap and head for the gates.
“Take it you’ve seen him then?” he calls after me.
Why do you do this to yourself? I spin around, feeling rude if I ignore Dog considering this has nothing to do with him.
“Hooch, or Digits?”
He shrugs. “Both, I guess. But I mostly meant Hooch.”
“Yeah, I saw him.”
He studies me a moment, his eyes hard as he leans casually against the outside of the clubhouse, having a smoke. “And you’re still going?”
“What’s one got to do with the other?” I exclaim, throwing my hands in the air. Why does everyone assume I owe Hooch something? He used me. Twice. He almost used me three times. He’s the one who owes me.
Dog smirks, a look I’ve come to know means I’m about to get into trouble. “You tellin’ me you don’t care about the guy?”
“Of course I care about him,” I admit. “That’s what I don’t understand.”
“What’s there to understand?”
“We’re just so different,” I say, staring at my feet. “Plus, I don’t even know how he feels about me. I just seem to be something … convenient.”
Dog’s feet shift in my periphery, and he drops his spent cigarette to the ground. “You talked to him about this?”