I woke up when the plane rattled again, bouncing along some unseen force. I looked around, I was still surrounded by crates, safe and sound. I peered over and saw that the luggage and dog kennel were still intact. Nothing appeared to have changed. I ducked down once more as the door opened. I looked over, seeing just a slight stripe of blonde hair as someone walked away. The suitcases were gone. I jumped over the crate and looked out, making sure it was safe to run. Once everyone's backs were turned, I ran in the opposite direction. I looked around for a truck. I had come here in a Walmart truck, I could very easily leave in one. If there was one, though, it was on the other side, where all the people were. I looked around and saw a metal wire fence. I could make it, if I ran. I was fast, which was probably the only thing that hadn't killed me yet. The people returned to the plane, and I saw the marshmallow dog, Boris, freed from its kennel. It was a very large dog, but didn't attack anyone. Maybe, someday, I'd have a dog like that. Although it's awful doubtful, a girl in a strange city with no one around that she knows and comes from an awful background like me. Some days I wondered why I didn't just give up and go get off on cocaine or something. I just always assumed that I didn't want to end up like my parents and wanted to make my Grandpa proud of me for once. The boys and Boris went back on the plane and I made a run for it, climbing the fence quickly. I looked back. How did no one notice me? Maybe that was a good thing. I started running again, getting as far away from the plane as my feet could allow. It wasn't long before I started to see signs of life. A farm here, the signs of an up-and-coming subdivision there. I slowed to a walk now. There wasn't anyone to catch me. I looked up at a sign.
Welcome to
MULLINGAR
Ireland
Ireland? But.... I thought the plane was going to New York. How was I supposed to find my way around Ireland, of all places? Did we even stop in New York? Questions ran through my mind, ricocheting off the insides of my skull. I calmed myself and sat down next to the road, where I had seen a few cars pass by. I thought about asking for a ride from someone, but then what if's started running through my mind. What if they think I'm a prostitute? What if they rape me? What if they don't want to help because I look so terrible? I was going through the increasingly long list of what if's when a car pulled up. I looked at the front. "Range Rover". I stood and brushed off, prepared to run at a moment's notice.
"Hello, there." A man, perhaps forty or so, leaned over the console. "You alright there? Need a ride or anything?" I nodded, slowly. "Oh, don't worry, hun. I'm not going to hurt you or anything. What's your name?" He had an English accent, and I debated on telling him. I didn't realize I was still standing there like an idiot. "You know what? Why don't you just get in the car? It doesn't matter." I reached out and slowly pulled the handle, warm and smooth in my palm. It clicked softly as I opened the door. I sat on the seat, as far away as possible from the man. "My name's Paul. This is Liam." He pointed towards the back and I turned to see a young man, his hair cut short, with brown eyes. He looked like the boy on the plane that used disinfectant. I wasn't sure why, but I gave a small wave. He smiled and reached out his hand. I looked from his hand to his eyes. Was he playing some sort of trick on me? I took it, slowly.
"Hello, there. Liam." He smiled brightly when I took his hand. "What's your name?" I looked at him again, arguing with myself.
"Liam, I don't think she talks." I shook my head quickly, deciding to go with that story. No one questions a girl that can't talk. I held my guitar to my chest.
"Do you play?" I nodded. "Can I hear?" I looked at him. Why would he want to hear me play? I nodded, all the same. It could pay the two for taking me into the town. I moved so that I wouldn't be touching Paul and strummed the strings. The last string needed tuning. I fixed it again and then went on to play my Grandpa's favorite song. It had a name at one time, but I had long forgotten it, along with the cemetery name where he had been buried. I played softly, just loud enough to hear, but not loud enough to be a nuisance. The two didn't seem to mind. After I stopped, they didn't speak, Liam just staring at me, the way I had seen children stare at a new, shiny toy on the television. My breathing nearly stopped while I waited for him to say something, looking down when I realized he probably thought I was being weird. I faced the front, assuming they hadn't liked it.
