Escaping Breath

Chapter 02

At some point between the end of Creative Writing and lunch, I find myself wondering from thought to thought like a frog jumping from lily pad to lily pad. Only unlike me as the frog skips away, it experiences a sense of freedom, where I, on the other hand, feel myself getting more and more trapped in my own head. I keep trying to escape it, keep trying to stop the thoughts and feelings, but the more I try, the more present they become and then all I want it to be that frog, that bird, that deer, that gets to escape, that gets to jump or fly or run away. 

Run away...sometimes I just want to run away. 

If I ever want to be alone while at school I know that I just have to make my way to the picknick table behind the school. It was put there for the intention that the staff would use it, but they don't like the heat much as soon as it hits April so I know they won't be out there. Getting to the table, I drop my books, take out my notebook and allow myself to once again remember.

In the end, it all goes back to her, always her. 

When I was nine years old and full of childish hope, my mother beckoned me to her room. 

"Get me the luggage bag from the garage, it's in the closet," she demanded.

I had no reason to question her and so, I made my way to retrieve it for her. Hidden behind piles of rubbish and cobwebs that terrified me tremendously I found the black luggage bag hidden aside an old cooler that we used when on family vacations. Using whatever force I could muster, I yanked the bag and headed back towards the house. 

Knocking on her wooden bedroom door, I handed it to her. She thanked me before closing it and I went on with my day. The next morning I was awoken by my older sister. 

She was gone.

She had packed her bags, left her phone, and a letter claiming how sorry she was, claiming how painful it was for, claiming how she wished it could have been different, claiming, and claiming. 

Why couldn't she have claimed that she loved us too much to leave? 

For three months she was gone, with no trace of where she could be. It was like she was everywhere, but nowhere all that the same time. Every step inside our house was a reminder of her, of where she usually was, but now wasn't. We tried looking for her, tried finding out where she had gone, but all we got were unwanted answers. Answers of who she had left us for, answers to her deceit, answers of how long she had planned this. So many unwanted answers. It wasn't until she reached out to us that she reappeared, almost like if nothing had gone wrong. My sister and brother were able to patch things up like nothing had happened, but how could I forget? How could I forget when she had made me her accomplice? Nine-year-old me. I hadn't had a clue. 

From then on I faked the forgiveness, faked that nothing had changed, that she was still the same mother that went on class field trips with me, the same mother that picked me up after school, but she wasn't. She wasn't the same mother to me. Not anymore. 

Picking up my pen, I write, 

"What does it mean to be enough

will it make them stay, 

will it make her stay. 

When did I stop being enough

for me,

for them,

for her,

When?"

With the rustling of the door, I quickly shut my notebook and compose myself. I dry the tears that became present. Can't have people thinking that happy, dandy Addison is sad. Looking up I see that it's just Taylor.