I can’t stay here.
I can’t stay married to Aaron.
Deep down, I never truly believed this would be a permanent arrangement, and I was stupid and weak for letting myself think that what we had could possibly become real. Jesus, the guy didn’t even know my true name…
Happily ever after was never a possibility.
I know what I have to do.
It’s fight or flight and we have been fighting for far too long.
Unknowingly, Aaron has given me an out. He’s given me the perfect reason to leave.
Splashing cold water on my face soothes the heat I can feel surrounding my eyes. I’ve cried out every last tear left in my body and there is nothing left to give. I feel nothing now. I’m empty, devoid of feeling any emotion other than annoyance at myself for letting this happen again. The cold water awakens my skin and spurs me on to what I know is the next step in rebuilding my life.
I clean up the cut on my cheekbone and wince at the sting that comes from my touch. It’s superficial and will heal fairly quickly. It may not even leave a visible scar.
Just an addition to the invisible scars I carry.
I open the bathroom door quietly and slowly, taking in the mess that surrounds me. I listen for any signs that Aaron might be here, but there is nothing but silence and a heavy air around me. I look out of the bedroom window and note that Aaron’s car is gone. Relief washes over me. I know I might not have long to get out of here, but it’s better than facing him. I throw on some clothes, drag a big suitcase from the top of the wardrobe and fill it with as many essentials as I can: handfuls of clothes, a few toiletries, and my sketch pads. My life, thrown together in a suitcase and packed up in five minutes flat.
I wheel the suitcase to the bedroom doorway, willing myself to stay strong and forcing my feet to keep walking. I walk faster and faster until I run down the curved staircase, the suitcase hitting every step with a thud as I drag it behind me.
When I reach the foyer, I pick up my purse. I don’t know how far away I can get with my credit cards before Aaron puts a stop on them to cut me off, or a trace on them to find me, but I have a separate account that Aaron doesn’t know about. I think deep down I knew it wouldn’t work out, so I kept my backup quiet while still putting a little away in savings.
I take off my rings and leave them on the side table next to the front door so he will see them when he walks in. If he didn’t already know that our sham of a marriage was over, he will when he finds my rings there. I snatch up my keys, fling the front door open, grab my suitcase and flee. Pressing the button on the key fob, my Porsche Carrera blips, and the lights flash to indicate it’s unlocked. I bundle my suitcase across to the passenger’s seat and jump in.
The wheels spin out of the drive and kick up a cloud of dust and dirt behind me as I glance in the rearview mirror at the house I am leaving behind.
It is beautiful, but it was never home.
Chapter 2
After driving for a couple of hours, I can feel my eyes closing, and I don’t want to risk falling asleep at the wheel, so my safest option is to stop somewhere for the night and take it from there.
I pull off the highway and into a motel. It looks rundown, but it’s the last place Aaron will come looking for me. He’ll expect me to go to a high class hotel, with full room service and every luxury available. But I guess he never really knew me. Maybe I don’t even know myself.
I shut the door behind me and glance at my room for the night. A solitary single bed, one pillow and a small pile of sheets and blankets. I haven’t slept in a single bed since I was seventeen.
I feel like I’m constantly going backwards…
The patterned carpet is psychedelic patterns in what I can only guess should have been red and yellow but now looks more like shades of browns, and threadbare in the places that suffer the most footfall. An armchair in the corner and a nightstand nextto it are the only other furnishings and they are well worn and used. The lamp on the nightstand has no lampshade, making the light harsh and casting obscure shadows around the walls. I actually think this room might not have been updated since 1975.
I drop my suitcase and throw the keys onto the armchair in the corner. It takes four steps across the small dingy room to the bathroom door and I close my eyes as I push the handle, afraid of what I might find in there. Squinting them open, I turn on the light and I’m met with a very old bathroom suite but it’s clean and I’m pleasantly surprised. I shut the door again and let out a long exhale. As I sit down on the bed, the springs groan and protest with my small weight and a stale musky smell invades my nose.
I glance at my watch. 10pm. I’m exhausted emotionally and my body has made its way down from the adrenaline high and feels twice as heavy to move as it should. I have no idea where I go from here, and my head is too weary to decide right now. Sleep, I need sleep. I’m hoping all will become clearer in the light of day.
I make the bed up with the surprisingly clean sheets and climb in fully clothed. My face throbs from the cut and I instinctively bring my fingers up to my cheek, touching lightly underneath the wound and recalling the events of the night. I never thought it would come to this. I just wanted to feel settled, like I belong somewhere. I just want to let my guard down and not have to keep up some sort of pretense.
If this is what my life is going to be like on the run, maybe it’s time to think about taking some of my old life back. The scenarios running through my head exhaust me as I drift off into a surprisingly deep sleep.
***
I open my eyes just a fraction and snap them shut again. When the sleep mist clears and I work out what day it is and why I’m here, I groan. I don’t know what’s worse, my dreams or reality. I sit up and swing my legs out of the bed, cringing a little as my bare feet hit the not so clean carpet. I take a deep breath, stretch my arms above my head and go for a shower.
The scalding water beats down on my body, and with every minute longer that I’m in here, things become a little clearer. I have to satisfy myself that I haven’t lost the girl I was just because I have a different name. Natalie isn’t a fictional person; she’s me. I’m still me.
I’m sick of this.
