Chapter 2
156 Miles Gone
I have been groomed to survive; if survival is the game, I am the victor. Years of fighting just to make it one more day in hell is no longer my present reality or my future.
I have already been a Vicky, an Aleesha, and a Mayas as I have traveled from town to town, making it miles and miles away from my personal prison. Now in sleepy small town, USA, I’m Jillian the waitress. Thank God for Old Man, because the little money Jazzy and I collected didn’t last very long or get me very far. His money has been a nice cushion to fall back on when little surprises popped up along the trail.
I found a little family-owned diner where I currently work. It’s off the beaten path, and only frequented by locals. It’s the definition of low key, which fits my every need. At the age of eighteen, I want to avoid all the trendy places filled with vicious predators. My prior life has taught me to never trust anyone. I need at least a thousand miles put behind me before I will allow myself the privilege of breathing easily.
Shadows of doubt linger constantly inside me, taunting, “You’ll never be happy. You were born to hurt. Get used to it.”
There are days I fight against the voice, and other days I just let it win. If I can live the rest of my life alone and safe, that will be enough. My safety and learning to live easy with my scars will always be enough.
My new enemy is faceless and is always there to bully me. Time. By avoiding a normal college life, I have nothing to do when I’m not working. My co-workers in each town soon learn I will pick up all unwanted extra shifts that predominantly fall on Friday and Saturday nights. The day of the week never matters much to me, because I just need money to keep running further and further away.
Like I said, time is the current monster I battle. I found an apartment to rent above a garage while saving up enough money to move on. It’s a tiny space with a bathroom, sink, and plenty of rodents, but it’s Duane and trash free. The only thing to haunt me here are my scars. Time and my scars have the ability to devastate me at any given moment on any given day. Just one glimpse at one of the deep craters on my skin has the ability to send me into complete panic mode.
The long, jagged scar that runs from my ear, down the length of my neck, to my collarbone is easy enough to forget. I am only reminded of it when I happen to catch my reflection in the mirror, which I have become a pro at avoiding. My short auburn hair is easy to fix without looking in a mirror. Some styling product and a couple quick flicks, and I have an effortless style. Several people compliment me on my trendy hair and ‘how cute’ it is. They really have no clue how much I hate my hair and my own skin I’m forced to live in.
The scar covering my right hand tells a different story, an unavoidable story. The one that gets retold time and time again, and you would do about anything to bury its memory forever, but when the words of that story are imprinted on your hand, it’s impossible to forget. The marks of it haunt me, and when I have time, I find myself picking at it, which quickly invites Steve back into my memories.
“Mom, I’m going to Jazzy’s,” I yell as I fling open her bedroom door.
I’m not quite sure of the scene, besides lots of skin and bodies covering my mom and her bed, and Steve holding a camera.
“Jesus Christ, Linda, you told me that little shit was gone. She just ruined hours of footage,” he says as he tucks himself in his pants and throws the camera across the room.
“You motherfucking brat, get out,” Mom yells.
“No, I’m gonna teach her a lesson.”
I turn to run for the front door, but a strange man wearing no clothes rips me back by the hair.
“I can teach her, Steve,” he says, chuckling.
“No fucking way. She’s mine.”
Steve grabs me by the arm and drags me into the kitchen away from the crowd. My heart wants to scream for my mom, but my brain knows she’ll never come to my rescue. Her friends will always be more important than me, always.
“You will learn, little girl, to never bother us again. You will learn right now.”
He turns the burner on high, and I think how weird that he’s going to cook on a spoon before teaching me.
My mom rounds the corner, with a cigarette dangling from her lips and a stranger plastered to her backside.
“Just keep it in your pants, because I don’t want CPS sniffing around again, Steve,” she mumbles.
“Mom, I was just going to tell you I was going to Jazzy’s. Please, tell him to let me go,” I plead, struggling.
“You’ll never knock, touch, or open that door again, little girl,” Steve hisses as he grabs my right hand and forces it down on the searing hot burner.
No longer are the pungent smell of my house, the sight of my mom smoking, or the threat of strangers my greatest enemies. No, time has taken their place. The empty time in my life now allows my memories to haunt me every second, and if that isn’t enough, then my scars are visible reminders of my past.
To get my mind off the past, I decide to go grocery shopping. All it takes is the three-second magic hair trick, and viola, I’m ready to go. This is the third town I’ve been in. Call it superstition or Old Man’s warning to “keep your motherfucking back to the wall,” but I map out my routes in every town, and then strictly stick to them. Each route serves its purpose and is very specific in nature. Route one is always from my front door to work, route two is from the front door to a grocery store, and on the days I am feeling adventurous, route three is from work to the grocery store, and then to my front door.
Sometimes I silently dare myself to abandon the route and discover new territory, but the harsh reality of fear takes over. I wouldn’t call them panic attacks, but rather fucking common sense telling me to stay safe and keep my motherfucking back to the wall.
Four blocks north, one block east, and then a half block north again, and my destination is on the right. So robotic my life is now, which I totally love. No pain, fears, or feelings to deal with. Full-on boring routine is my friend.
Tuesdays are the worst, because no matter how many times I’ve begged Becky to work, she won’t let me. She insists I have at least on whole day off, and that means a complete twenty-four hour period of time. Absolute hell in my book. As if my brain knew what was coming, it gifted me with a horrible nightmare last night. Steve and Duane were both in it and hell-bent on taking me back to my mom. I fought with everything I had, but lost the struggle as they tossed me in an old, rusty van and headed back to my hometown. I woke up before I had the chance to see my mom’s haggard face. Woke up in a dead sweat, screaming and grasping for freedom before I realized it was only a dream. Then my eyes focused in on the time, and it was only 4:32 a.m.
So the only way to survive this day is a trip to the grocery store. I always eat a hot meal at the diner. It’s the one and only perk of working almost every day of your life. My piece of shit apartment doesn’t have any appliances, so it’s always a cold meal for me. My shopping list is simple: cereal, chips, Lunchables, cookies, and bananas. Nothing exciting, but enough to get by. Today I’m in desperate need of body soap and shampoo. I’m always able to sneak a roll of toilet paper from the diner. Not classy, but survival mode has never been known to be fancy.
Today on the walk home I’m silently cursing myself for buying a pint of whole dill pickles. You know the type they sell at the movie theaters. I’ve only been to the movies one time, and that was with my mom and one of her boyfriends. I had to beg for Jazzy to come along, and my mom finally gave in, but I know it was only so she didn’t feel guilty for sending me off to a random theater while she and the man went to a different one. Thank God Jazzy did go, because my mom never met us afterward. We ended up walking home, and when we passed Horseshoe Bar we saw her from the front window.
All I remember Jazzy saying was, “At least you got one of those pickles. It was delicious.”
I remember at the time thinking it was definitely worth the pickle, the big comfy seat, and watching a movie. When I spotted the pickles twenty minutes ago on aisle nine, I knew I needed them. I sacrificed a week’s worth of Lunchables to buy the puppies, but now carrying them in the heat, not such a good idea. Three blocks and two turns left.
Goodbye, Jillian.