Which, in a way, is what I want, isn’t it?
Once I get myself under control, I stop at a store around the corner and buy myself a small bag and a change of clothes. And then I hail a taxi and make my way to Rome’s airport. At the ticket counter, I wrack my mind to find a city that has no portal nearby. One that can be a gateway to other cities, via other travel methods.
St. Louis will do, especially since a plane leaves for there in less than half an hour. There’s a connection via New York, but that can’t be helped. During the flight, I work on the shields around me. I smooth and buff the edges until I feel confident that a Tracker won’t sense me. I make myself unworthy to look at or to give the time of day. People won’t notice me unless I speak to them first. This, I hope, will give me that head start.
The past week has been calculated via trains and buses. I am now in Kansas, standing in front of a row of hair color boxes in a drugstore. I deliberate between blonde or attempting a gutsy black. I’d always wanted to be a redhead, but Sophie’s ruined that for me now.
I go for blonde, buying three boxes to ensure the brown fades entirely. It’s called light ash blonde, and appears, on the box, to glow like white gold.
I’ve rented a room in a dingy local motel, cash only. Over the next few hours, my light brown fades to almost white. And then I hack my hair off in uneven chunks until it barely scrapes my chin line. It’s hard to look at the person in the mirror, because she doesn’t look like Chloe anymore.
But I guess that’s because she isn’t. Not that anyone’s asked me my name, but I wouldn’t tell them Chloe. Apart from my shields, which I’ve attempted to make as permanent as possible, and the stack of additional alternate fake IDs and paperwork I concocted when I was in Nebraska days before, I do no Magic.
I’m a nobody.
A non-Magical now.
Just another nameless girl who could be anyone anywhere.
In New Mexico, I get my eyes checked at a Wal-Mart. I tell the person that I’ve always wanted blue eyes, because I’m going to move to Hollywood and be an actress. I lie and say that I’ve heard that blondes with blue eyes tend to get more acting roles than those with green eyes. The guy thinks I’m a freak, but I’m given a year’s worth of blue contacts, no prescription.
I hit North Dakota for two days and then bounce down to Idaho. I skip California entirely.
I spend three days in Canada. Vancouver is brilliant and beautiful but too close to California. So I keep moving north. Keep moving towards those Northern Lights that I used to daydream about for years.
I ping around various cities in Alaska for a few days until I find myself in Anchorage. It’s a big city, the biggest in Alaska, but it still has this small town feel to it. The nearest portal is in Juneau, and that’s five-hundred-some miles to the southeast, which feels like a safe enough distance.
I should keep moving. Maybe back into Canada, someplace like Saskatchewan, but I’m tired. So very, very tired.
I no longer let myself think about the people I’ve left behind. No names, no faces, no memories. It’s so hard to do, but I manage to numb my mind from these things. I tell myself I have no other choice in the matter. My goal is simple: to ensure others’ happiness, I must be gone.
I spend my first night in Anchorage in a motel and then find on the next day a small bed and breakfast sort of place that houses locals. I’m given a room that doesn’t even have its own bathroom—I have to share with my neighbor. It’s okay, though. I do not deserve to indulge myself more than that.
I spend the third day buying myself a wardrobe. I’ve picked up a few pieces over my travels, but not much. Everything I get is cheap and comfortable. I do not go for cute; I’m all about practicality. I don’t want to stand out.
I get myself a hotplate and a few non-perishable groceries. I pick up a tiny fridge that can hold a quart of milk and not much else. And then I buy a newspaper and begin looking for a job, because my stolen funds will start to dwindle sooner or later.
I don’t find many prospects. I have very little skills or experience to lend myself to most jobs. In fact, I’ve never worked anywhere other than my mother’s nursery, and I was never paid for that. College in Annar was a joke. Being a Creator is not something I can put on a resume.
But I have to do something, because I feel like I’m disintegrating. The pain is so excruciating at times that all I want to do is fall into that black abyss. I have, actually. Sometimes at night I let myself slide into oblivion, but then, inevitably, I wake up and remember why I need to move on.
“Our pancakes are the best,” the waitress coos at me. She’s short and bubbly, all curly brown hair and matching eyes, twin dimples on her cheeks.
I can’t deal with those dimples. I force myself to stare at her eyes rather than her cheeks.