Now
Leaving the airport, I don't know what to expect. It's not like I want to do this. I'm not ready to come back. My entire life, people have always been telling me that I'm in control of my own choices, but this, this doesn't feel like it's my choice. It's forced.
My suitcase rolls over a small pebble and I get in line for a cab. While I'm waiting, I check my phone, just to make sure I haven't missed any important messages.
I haven't.
I don't know what going back is going to be like. I haven't been back in more than two years, and I don't want to be back now. The plan was to get as far away from these people as I possibly could.
As soon as the bright yellow cab pulls up, the driver pops the trunk and situates my carry-on sized red metallic suitcase in it. I open the door for myself, my fingertips dampen as my hands brush against the raindrops on the handle. I sit down in the backseat and gently strap myself in, aware of how exhausted I must look from the airplane ride.
"14680 15th St. Buront please," I say quietly. It sounds disgusting now that I say it aloud. I don't want anything to do with Buront anymore, I don't even want to hear the name.
"Quite far, huh?" the driver asks. I nod my head, shoving in my worn out earbuds and hitting play on my Spotify playlist. I don't talk much to cab drivers or people who sit next to me on the bus, or planes. It's just weird. But, if I had to choose one thing that bothered me the most, it was getting into cabs. Mainly because I didn't want to trust the driver. I always have a hypothetical feeling that the driver is actually a serial killer and is driving me to a river where they'll hit me over the head with a golf club, or baseball bat. I'll go unconscious, they'll throw me into the water, I'll drown, and no one will ever know what happened to me. Or care for that matter.
I try no to focus on my thoughts too much, I try to listen to the words of the song blasting in my ears, but it's not working for me today. My mind loves to jump to conclusions. I always try to control it, I really do.
After all, only bitches jump to conclusions.
I watch as rain pours down, nearly flooding the streets. It's a small town, Buront. Population, 1,327. Not many people come out here. It's quiet, depressing, and majority of the time it's raining. It's not exactly what you would call a hotspot for tourists.
I look out the window and study the trees passing by. The rain rolls down the windows in little droplets. I divide the window into two, racing the droplets on both sides. So far, the left is winning. I eventually get bored and stare at my lap, playing with the silver ring on my finger, fidgeting because I can't sit still.
I want to move, I want to go back.
I don't belong here, I never did. I belong in New York. I belong in my apartment. I should be at work, designing the inside of some stranger's house.
Realization finally hits. I shouldn't be doing this. I shouldn't be here. I should be far away from here, far, far away. This is a mistake.
I close my eyes and take slow, controlled breaths. No anxiety here. I almost tell the driver to turn around and take me back to the airport. But when I finally find the courage to open my eyes, it's too late. We're already here.
I look up at my childhood house, and all the memories come flooding back, hitting me in a wave.
A massive black gate at the front, which is open. A huge circular driveway, with an ornate historical fountain in the middle. Precisely trimmed grass, that would actually make you believe that the grass is greener on the other side. The house itself is still the exact same way I left it, huge. Four big white pillars run up the front, the rest of the house is a shade in between white and pink. It's ugly, now that I can officially say I don't live here.
I pay the fair and step out of the cab, taking my suitcase out myself and staring up at the house, feeling nausea overcome me.
I want to go back, but it's too late, the cab driver is already speeding down the street, as if he knew what happened on the property.
Welcome to Buront.