The Long Road Home
Lauren Hammond
The Long Road Home
© Lauren Hammond 2013
This novelette is a work of fiction, but loosely based on true events experienced by the author. Portions are fictitious and are not to be misconstrued as real. Any coincidences pertaining to a real person alive or deceased are derived from the imagination of the author and are not thought of as real.
Chapter One
January 2013
Most of the time, I think the business trips I have to take for work are short-lived.
Most of the time, I wish I could just stop…
For a minute.
Or two.
Take a look around.
Really see all the sights and learn to appreciate what the different states I visit have to offer.
I work for a small publishing company, running their publicity department and love the fact that I get to travel because of it. Book conventions excite me and that may be because I am a book nerd at heart.
The city of Boston, state of Massachusetts.
A place where they say car minus the ‘r’, not to mention a place where they hosted a tea party that went down in history.
A depressing sigh escapes my lips as I pull out of the Starbucks drive-thru with my venti caramel macchiato nestled safely in my center consul. Not just because I’m leaving Boston without a chance to really experience the city in all of its glory, but because I see a couple in the window of the coffee shop. A man with thick, spiked mahogany hair and a woman, with shiny red ringlets falling into her pale face.
She laughs.
He laughs.
She bites her lower lip in a bashful manner.
He reaches over and tucks a shiny red curl behind her ear.
They’re clearly head over heels for one another.
For a second I can feel my face pulling and I almost smile then the smile slips from my lips. Witnessing this tender display of affection almost breaks me. The couple, they look so happy. So in love. It reminds me of a time in my life where I felt the same way.
It reminds me of a time in my life where I thought I’d always feel the same way.
Pain.
A deep, stabbing, searing pain punctures my heart and I mentally curse for putting myself through this cinematic torture. It’s at that moment that I fall apart.
My face is a red hot poker removed from the hearth of a fireplace.
Tears rain down my cheeks to put out the blaze.
Sobs leave my throat so hard and so close together that I can barely breathe.
All because a man once took things from me.
My heart.
My soul.
My ability to distinguish what is normal in a relationship and what is just plain messed up.
Yes, some of the blame of why the relationship fell apart is on me, but it is not all my fault.
Yes, I did things.
Said things.
Even acted out when I shouldn’t have. But what he did was worse.
Much, much worse.
Somehow, with twisted vicious words and careless thoughtless actions he managed to break me in half.
Split me wide open, an open throbbing bleeding wound for anyone and everyone to see. He managed to rip the person I used to be from my chest, hiding it in a darkened corner of my house where I couldn’t seem to find it.
And he never once apologized for it.
Why?
This is the one word question I always seem to ask myself.
Why?
Was it because he knew I’d never be what he wanted me to be? Was it because I’m a strong, independent woman? Was it because I intimidated him?
I don’t know why I allow these questions to antagonize me.
Because it doesn’t matter anymore.
Why again?
Because I’m still there.
At home.
Not completely all alone, but on a mental level on my own.
And he’s not.
Not there I mean, at home.
He’s so far gone.
Gone, gone, gone.
A loud car horn blares behind me. I snap out of my reverie, wipe the tears from my eyes, and make a quick right onto the one-way alley. When I reach the interstate, I regain my composure completely and watch the massive, brick skyscrapers shrink through my rearview mirror.
I’ve got a ten hour drive ahead of me.
I’ve got a lot on my mind to keep me occupied.
I’ve got a full tank of gas.
A caramel macchiato from Starbucks.
A bottle of water for later.
Some snacks.
An iPod full of sweet tunes. A few twisted thoughts. Not to mention a broken heart. All of which will accompany me while I drive.
All of which will accompany me while I travel on the long road home.
Chapter Two
Sometimes I drive in silence.
Sometimes, I allow the heavy, hanging air of quiet to swell inside of me and bring me peace.
A sense of serenity.
A moment of transcendent calm where I can almost let go of the wheel, extend my arms, cup the wind in my palms, and feel safe.
Even free.
Then…
There are other times.
There are times where I crank up the volume on my iPod, let the music blare, and I drive, and drive, and drive as the haunting melody of the song works its way through my body, infecting every part of me until it reaches the core of my soul.
Today is one of those days.
I’ve been on the road for six hours.
White clouds of snow waft down from the heavens in big, fluffy flakes and the tarred road in front of me is wet with slush. The highway is half empty. There are only a few cars, littering lanes to my right and left.
I am thankful for this.
When there is a lot of traffic I tend to tense up.
Feel nervous.
Uneasy.
Too focused and unable to concentrate on anything, but the yellow lines blurring together in front of me. Especially in the snow. But today the nearly vacant lanes bring me the distraction I so desperately need.
Thinking of that couple in the coffee shop earlier has me in a blunder of emotional turmoil. It has put my mind in a whirl of dirty, tainted thoughts, haunting horrifying images, and lust-filled voices that even Adele belting out Someone Like You at the maximum volume on my stereo can’t seem to drown out.
Their hushed, raspy voices flood my ears.
Shhh.
Beat against my eardrums.
She’ll never find out.
Throb in my temples.
Just touch me. Please.
Wash over every part of me like the tide, but lingering mostly in my mind, a haunting echo that never dies.
Touch me. Kiss me. Love me.
I grip my steering wheel tightly and grit my teeth.
Take deep breaths. Take deep breaths.
Don’t think about them.
Don’t torture yourself.
Don’t allow them a nanosecond of time in your precious thoughts.
I inhale and exhale repeating my mantra several times silently then close my eyes thinking that might help, but it doesn’t.
I pinch the bridge of my nose.
Bite the inside of my cheek.
Dryness licks my throat like a bonfire with snapping flames. I almost choke then reach for the bottle of water resting in the cup holder of my center consul. My fingers tremble, the bottle is full and I fumble as I unscrew the cap. I bring the head to my lips and guzzle down half the bottle in a few long gulps. Part of me thinks the water will put out the fire in my throat, but it doesn’t even begin to extinguish the raw and burning
feeling.
My attention shifts.
Now I swear I can hear them laughing.
Malicious, cruel laughter at my expense.
Laughing at the fact that I am an oblivious moron.
Too good. Too loving. Too trusting.
Too blind to actually witness what was going on around me.
Too warped in my own life to see all of the signs.
It’s too much to bear.
I’ve almost got myself convinced that I need to put on my hazards, pull over, and a take a break from driving. I decide against that, going ahead with the notion that what I really need is an angst-filled song that I can scream along to. So I change the song on my iPod to You Oughta Know. Since my throat is already raw I figure a little more irritation won’t hurt too much.
Before the song ends, my phone vibrates. A text message. I swipe it from the center consul and read the message on the screen from my best friend, Ella.
Sa…Sa…Sadie! What up my sweet dumpling? How was Boston? You on your way home?
Ella and I have a special relationship. Then again I’m pretty sure all best friends who have been friends as long we have do.
She is the ying to my yang.
My ultimate P-I-C.
I guess that’s what over 20 years of friendship does to two people.
We’re also polar opposites where she’s the classic tomboy, always carrying tools in her purse and I’m the girly girl, always trying to prompt her to wear dresses. We lost touch for a while because she moved to the dirty, dirty south, but when she moved back, we became roommates and quickly picked up where we left off being our silly, glorious selves.
In fact the day after she moved back, I met her for dinner. When I stepped out of my car in the restaurant parking lot, she stood tall, her long straight black hair hanging down her back, her olive skin bronzed, a vibrant smile on her lips.
“What’s up darlin?” she said in her acquired southern twang as she hunched over to meet my 5’3 height and hug me. “You smell like a French whore.”
I laughed and shook my head. “Glad to have you back, Ell.”
At home, our daily interactions are, “Hey, have you seen my knife?” This is typically Ella. “I need to cut down some boxes.”
Or “Good morning, sugar muffin.” This is usually me.
Or we have epic dance parties in the kitchen at 7:00 am while making our way back and forth to the coffee pot. We even have a mutual love of music and we’ll swap songs we think each other would like. “You should download Never Coming Home by Crossfade,” she said.
I replied with, “You should check out Lindsey Stirling.”
Point blank, we get each other.
And I’m thankful to have her back.
Not only because we’re an epic duo, but because everyone needs somebody. Especially when they’re falling apart inside. And who better to help you piece yourself back together than someone you’ve known for practically your whole life.
I decide that I’ll text Ella back later.
Staring at my phone screen for another second, I switch the settings on the iPhone to airplane mode.
Sometimes I think it’s easier to shut out the world. But the funny thing is, you can shut out the world all you want, but it’s not going to make a damn bit of difference. Because even if you do, it’s still going to revolve. It’s always turning and turning and turning.
For now, I need to be alone.
In my car.
With my aching heart.
With my thoughts.
With my music.
Knowing that my world is going to revolve the second I switch my phone back on.
Chapter Three
Mile marker 147.
Three more hours and I’ll be home. I breathe a sigh of relief. I love to drive, but even at times the long hauls are exhausting.
I’ve been on the road so much lately sometimes it feels like one, long never-ending drive.
There are even times where I swear I leave pieces of myself in the mile markers along the highway. It’s like a puzzle. And it’s not until I return home that I put myself back together. I find strength in hearing Kelly Clarkson sing out, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. I find hope in the wind because it never stops blowing. And I find the confidence in myself that my ex stole when he made me believe I wasn’t worth anything. It’s like something miraculous happens at the end of all that. When my journey is over I’m whole again.
I’m home.
Home is where the heart is after all.
Or sometimes I think it’s where I leave mine.
I love to travel, but there is no better feeling than coming home.
My mother thinks it’s strange that I love to drive to places. Sometimes I even have moments where I’ll just get in my car and go. I have no destination planned and I don’t need one. The open road takes my mind to different places and I don’t feel like I need an explanation for it. “I don’t know how or why you do this,” she’ll say in scolding tone every time she calls me and I’m in some random place.
My response is always the same. “I need this mom. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
Then she’ll say, “Yeah…yeah.” That is followed by a fifteen minute update on what’s going on with the family that day. But I like hearing her crazy stories about my brother’s friends or how my grandmother miss-pronounced something on the Taco Bell menu. It’s crazy how little things like that can make you laugh.
It’s crazy how little things like that can brighten up your whole day.
For me, the last six months has been nothing but cloudy skies, hail, and blizzards. But I stay firm on my belief that sometimes, life can knock you down. It can beat the living shit out of you. You reach a point where you’re lying mangled and bloody, chained to the ground and there’s huge part of you that feels like you’ll never make out of this situation alive.
There’s a huge part of you that feels like you’ll never heal.
That instead of getting better, you’ll spiral downward and begin to die inside.
For three years of my life, I felt like I was dying inside.
Every.
Damn.
Day.
I’d wake up, stare at the dark purple walls in my bedroom and try and talk myself into starting my day. Then I would. Eventually. But I wasn’t my normal bubbly, loving self. My actions were always mechanical.
I felt like a robot and that in a lab somewhere, some mad scientist was controlling me with a remote. I functioned like I was supposed to, but that was about the extent of it. It didn’t take me long after that to shut down altogether.
That time in my life always made me wonder things.
Things about myself.
Things about my relationship.
And things like, if the heart wasn’t meant to be broken then why does it break so easily?
There were days, no, months where I hated myself.
I hated myself for loving him so much.
For allowing him to make a fool of me.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
Those three words can do crazy things to a person. They can leave in you in despair, make you drift in deep depression to the point where you feel like a zombie. And sometimes, they pave the path for a descent into madness.
I was so mad that sometimes the anger felt like a parasite.
It fed on me.
Day after day.
Month after month.
I was always bothered by the fact that I loved so hard.
I did.
He didn’t.
I know this with certainty.
The crazy part of it is that I am a sane person. I always told myself that I’d never let love bring out a different side of me. The side of me where I shriek hysterically.
Can’t catch my breath.
Feel like my heart has exploded into a million red gooey pieces. The side where I felt so captivated by him yet broken at the same time.
Until Ella
moved back, that is. I owe a lot of my recovery to her. Sure, I have other friends, and yes, they were there for me like I would be for them if they were in my situation, but it wasn’t the same.
Ella listens. She corrects me when I’m wrong. Tells me when I’m thinking too much. Picks me up when I’m feeling down.
She has helped me in a lot of ways. She has helped build me up into a stronger person.
Piece by piece.
Bit by bit.
She helps me every day morph back into the person I used to be.
Sure, I still have days where I feel like I need to figure myself out. I had months where I wasn’t sure who to be, or how to be, or I had times where I wasn’t even sure why I was doing some of the things I did. That happens when you’re a mess inside. That happens when you feel destroyed and ruined.
And me, I was a dirty, stinking pile of trash mess.
And I thank God every day for Ella, the person who helped clean me up.
Chapter Four
Darkness creeps in.
Slowly.
On its toes.
With a paintbrush.
Splattering a murderous palette of blues and violets and whites across the star-filled sky. I stare up at the illuminated balls of fire through the thick glass of my windshield.
The sky reminds me of a Van Gogh painting.
Frenzied, circular brush strokes.
Swirled colors.
It’s all rather beautiful.
Rounder, fatter snowflakes land on my windshield and I flip my wipers into full speed. They hail down from the heavens with lightning speed and it’s making it impossible to see the car in front of me. It’s making it impossible to see the road. I squint, noticing slush that has morphed into shiny patches of ice and I ease my right foot off the gas pedal and tap my brakes to keep my tires from sliding.
I happen to love when it snows. I happen to love the frosty landscape with its white peaks of fluff, trees that look like they’ve been sprinkled with powdered sugar, and ponds thick with layers upon layer of ice. However, driving in it…yeah…not so much. When there is a little bit of snow on the road it’s not so bad, but when you’re stuck in the middle of a blizzard that’s when things get difficult.
That’s when Mother Nature shows you who’s boss.
That’s when you lose control.
That’s when disastrous accidents happen.
I should be paying close attention to the road, but I’m not. I still have way too much on my mind to concentrate. I’m far off, on a cloud, in my own little world with my bitter thoughts and my up and down emotions. I’m thinking so much that I almost miss the bright, red tail-lights on the car in front of me flash. I slam on my brakes in the nick of time, grinding my teeth as my car slides slightly to the left. I jerk forward in my seat, my seat belt cutting into my chest before I smack my head back against my head-rest. A throbbing pain nestles in the lower part of my neck. I wince and rub it counter clock-wise.
The Long Road Home Page 1
