Twenty-Six.
The envelope lay on my mind like a thick coat of oil in the sea. It coated every thought trying to escape it, and poisoned it slowly until it reached its bitter end. But I couldn't bring myself to open it. At around three in the morning, I crawled out of bed and carefully took it out of the box. I fiddled around with the tape sealing it a bit, and put it back down. I got a glass of water, and paced in the kitchen for a while. I returned to your room, and sat on the bed next to the envelope. I tore at the edges of the tape a little more, but I couldn't do it. Angrily, I threw the envelope under the bed, and pulled the covers over my head.
I got up again at around five, picked at the tape some more, before my hands stopped listening to my pushy mind, and I, for the second time that night, couldn't open the envelope. I gave up and tried to sleep.
&&&.
I dragged myself out of bed around eight. I hadn't slept for a period longer than about fifteen minutes all night. Three coffees and a twenty minute long shower later, and I still didn't feel much better. I'd been told I could pick up the keys to my apartment anytime after nine.
It felt weird thinking of it as "my" apartment. It was never going to be mine. I was going to live there, yes. But who knew for how long? And there was nothing to make it mine. I hardly had belongings, because I hadn't wanted to take any. I hadn't wanted to take a single bit of the life I'd led thus far. Not that it mattered. A place to call my own was not what I longed for. I didn't long to find somewhere to call 'home'. I knew where home was- it was with you. But I had no intentions to return there, because you weren't good for me. You were my escape from a past, and to an extent a present, that tortured me day to day. But I'd become to dependant on you, and the thing I needed most in my life at that point in time was independence.
I needed to feel liberated from everyone, and everything. That way, when someone left, or I lost something, I'd be okay. I'd never go through what I went through every time you left, ever again. I bit my head as I felt Mum's disapproval within me. I could just see her sitting there, shaking her head.
"No, Mum. It's a good thing, really." I whispered, trying to reason with her.
She remained silent. Go figure. After all, she was nothing more than a faded image and a soft voice inside my head. And somehow, as memories started disappearing, whether it was by choice or just the natural workings of the mind over the years- I don't know; but the voice prevailed. It was just always there. I'm not sure why I still reasoned with her, argued with her and told her to go away. Really, I knew she was a figure of my imagination.
But in a way, I also knew she was a product of my subconscious- it had to express itself somehow, because, let's face it; my subconscious was far cleverer than I'd ever know. And that, in its annoying way, was strangely comforting sometimes. I liked the knowledge that something inside me always knew better. It made me feel like there was always some way of me at least avoiding the worst of trouble.
"Sometimes, anyways." She winked.
"Shut up, Mum." I laughed.
Sometimes, I thought I was going crazy. But it made me feel better. I couldn't live without her, because I never got a goodbye.
It's easier to have never known someone, than to have had them taken from you- especially when you don't understand how or why. It's easier to have no memories, than to have just enough memories to have you aching for more. It's easier to know nothing, than to know there's something you don't know. It's easier to know someone never loved you, or never existed, than to have thought they loved you and have to realise they may have not.
Sometimes, I wish I'd never known her. While her constant presence in my mind comforted me, it was hard. And I wanted it gone.
"I'm sorry Mum."
I felt a tear slowly trickle down my cheek, as I silently vowed to never let her be in my mind again. I'd always remember her, but I would never let her be in my mind the way she had been. I didn't want her voice there; I didn't want to see her, as if she were right there in front of me. I didn't want to know I knew better than whatever I was doing. I was sick of the unanswered questions.
I was sick of being lost.
&&&.
I was starting to find my way around the place quite well, I realised as I effortlessly found my way to work at the bar two blocks down that night. After a brief conversation with the boss, I was sent out to the bar, where I was introduced to Megan, who was going to be looking after me and, essentially, training me. She was a short but feisty-looking girl. Her long straight hair was a vibrant sort of red, and fell beautifully over her shoulders.
She flashed a near perfect, yet utterly natural smile as we were introduced. She had a sort of simple flamboyance about her. Despite her obvious beauty and self-confidence, I didn't find her intimidating. I felt easy around her.
Megan took the next hour to just show me around, and show me how everything worked. Then she let me serve some customers, which earned me some much appreciated tips. She was a good mentor- she encouraged me and always kept the mood upbeat. The more time I spent around Megan, the more I realised just how much she was my kind of person. She projected confidence, and she was the definition of extroversion- but not because she longed for the attention. She was just herself, and didn't try to be anything else. I also came to realise how much the atmosphere of the place depended on that.
It wasn't that the bar wasn't nice on its own- because it was. It was nicely furnished, and in its retro-style had a homely sort of appeal to it. The walls were a deep purple, and one was completely covered in original records. The modern music provided a soft contrast to the eighties style decor. The interior of the place was impeccable, no doubt, but it was the people within it that made it what it was.
I was amazed I was even hired- I'd even given my true age. I didn't fit in with the other drop-dead gorgeous waitresses, who were all in their early to mid-twenties. Or so I assumed.
"Hey Megan?"
"What's up love?"
"Why did Roland hire me?"
"Because he knew you'd fit right in."
"But I don't..." I argued.
"You do. Because you don't bullshit. You told him you were seventeen. It showed him you had guts. And that's all he wants from us. This place is unique
because the people in it are. He hires people like you and I to keep the place interesting."
"Oh. He reads people well then..."
Megan laughed a little.
"Or he's just good at spotting bright blue in chocolate hair," she joked.
"How shallow," I remarked, grinning.
"Nah, he is pretty perceptive." Megan smiled. "Now go on, the cutie at the end of the bar wants a drink."
"I thought we weren't allowed to get personal with customers?"
"Hence why you're going, not me. That way he'll be your customer, I can pretend I never saw him, and have an innocent little chit-chat with him when my
shift is over."
"Cheeky." I laughed.
"You know it," she winked, and turned, as I went to serve the man.
I liked this job. It was more than just a welcome distraction. It was a place where no one knew my story, and probably never would. This was a place where I could start a new story- and I was determined for it to be a good one. Finally, I'd found ambition to do something with my life. I didn't long to do anything huge. I just didn't want to screw this up. I just wanted to find happiness in the simplicity of my life. Plus, aside from a really decent pay, the people tipped more than generously.
The cherry on top was that there was nothing here to remind me of you, and there was nothing more than the blue bit of my hair reminding me of Mum. In a few days time, there would be nothing here to remind me of anything at all.
