I was so tired that I could hardly see where I was going. It was definitely time to stop somewhere. It was about three AM and basically, I’d been driving around aimlessly for the passed eighteen hours. Sure, I’d stopped occasionally to walk around small woodland areas or to get gas, but the majority of the time spent was driving.
I went out the next exit and pulled into the Shell parking lot. It was chilly and I could see my breath when I stepped out of my mom’s old VW Golf. Shivering and rubbing my shoulders, I hurried across the asphalt to the well-lit shop. A dinging sound rang in my ears when I entered and the woman at the counter immediately greeted me with an overly friendly ‘Good morning’. Sadly, I wasn’t quite as cheerful at the moment and simply nodded, going on my little scavenger hunt for food.
My stomach was growling like mad because I hadn’t eaten anything since those bagels from the airport. I didn’t have any smokes. I was tired. There were so many things pissing me off all at the same time. Due to lack of sleep, food and slight dehydration, I’d gotten a horrible headache on the way. I was very sensitive when it came to headaches. I got them quite a lot, just like my mom.
I grabbed a bottle of Nestea and a can of Jack Daniels with Cola. I was curious about it and had never seen it in cans before. In addition to this, I grabbed a handful of little chip bags, a couple of KitKats and a sandwich that was vacuum-packed and probably tasted horrible. It certainly looked like it. I was too hungry and sleepy to care.
The woman’s smile faded when I approached the counter and asked for a carton of Marlboro Reds. They’d raised the smoking and drinking limit to eighteen, which I was not. She eyed me carefully and cleared her throat. “Miss, may I see your identification?”
It had to come to this. Closing my eyes and sighing in annoyance, I dug it out of my wallet and showed her.
“Miss, you’re-“
“I’ve had a really rough day.” I began, my tone flat and weary. “Really rough. I’m turning eighteen in March. And I started smoking when it was ages sixteen and up, anyway.”
I somehow was able to convince her after telling my sob story about Kitty and the divorce. It always worked. I’m not the type to constantly whine to people about my troubles, but I always knew when to use to get what I wanted.
I paid an ungodly sum of money for cigarettes, candy bars and a crappy sandwich. Over fifty bucks! It didn’t matter right now. Money didn’t matter. Nothing seemed to. I felt terribly apathetic; much like Wes must’ve when Kitty told him the truth.
I could just imagine them sitting in her living room or bedroom with Kitty staring at the wall and not at Wesley. I could almost hear her soft voice, reciting the words she’s thought out so well. I could see her eyes grow wide when he reacted completely different than what she’d so carefully planned out. I knew why she did it, too. She’d consulted me before even going about dumping the kid.
The funny thing about my dearest Kitty is that she’s asexual. Unlike most of my friends, she never sat in sixth grade and fretted over what some guy thought about her. She never wrote love letters. She never swooned over movie stars or singers, save for maybe their voices or actual talent.
Perhaps that’s why I always respected Kitty so much. She’d never let some guy manipulate or use her. You’d never have Kitty come to school on Monday morning and cry in the bathroom because she got wasted at a party and taken advantage of. She never bothered you with useless information, like how some girl flirted with her boyfriend or how she and another girl both want the same boy. She just didn’t care about love and sex, so we never talked about it. I think that’s what made our friendship so special.
It was still pristine and child-like. No matter how much shit I did or how low I sunk into overly demanding adulthood. I compare life to floating out on the ocean. Your childhood is like a raft that carries you. As you get older, the raft slowly depletes. With some people the process is faster, and it’s slower with others. No matter how fast or slow it is, however, you can never get that air back. When it’s all said and done, you’re left as an adult, defenceless and sinking into an abyss; a chasm.
No matter how close I sank to that chasm, I still felt that particular innocence that I missed so much when I was with her. She was like a floatation device that appeared every now and then and kept me from completely losing my adolescence entirely.
I sometimes wondered if she could sense my fear. If you heard me talk or watched me drink and smoke, you’d never know how scared I was. I was really petrified at the idea of becoming an adult. I felt as though life were practically over when you reached a certain stage in your life. I never, never wanted to reach that stage.
I got to my car and turned on the radio, laying out a blanket in the back to curl up. I sipped my Jack Daniels with Cola (which tasted horrible, by the way) and nibbled on my sandwich after I’d devoured the candy and chips (the sandwich sucked too).
I glanced at my cell phone just as it vibrated. With a bit of reluctance, I answered.
“Lyla Christine!” My mom’s voice was on the other end. She sounded more worried than angry, thankfully.
“Hey Mom.” I replied, trying not to sound tipsy or depressed. “Sorry. I headed down to Berlin to see Bernie.” I wasn’t quite there because I really didn’t want to be around so many people just yet, but it wasn’t a lie, either.
She scolded me for quite some time after she was certain that I was alright. I deserved it, I guess. The whole while I didn’t pay much attention to what she said and just agreed to everything. I didn’t feel like making a scene or arguing. I didn’t feel like talking, either.
We said our goodbyes and she seemed a lot calmer when I hung up. I chugged down the Jack and tossed the empty can on the floorboard in front of me. My eyelids were heavy and I burrowed into my fleece blanket, drifting off to sleep within mere moments.
The sound of honking horns jolted me out of my sleep. I glanced at my cell phone and realized that it was already seven AM. I rubbed my eyes groggily and checked my reflection in the rear view mirror before crawling into the front. It was time to move on; destination unknown.
I was on the autobahn on the way to Potsdam when it hit me; Rothenberg. If there was one city or town in all of the Germany or the entire world, for that matter, that inspired me and picked me up like no other, then it was Rothenberg ‘ob der Tauber’. I knew damn well that I wouldn’t make it in one day- I had a short attention span and loved stopping every chance I got. (I spent 18 hours driving from Hamburg to the outskirts of Potsdam, for God’s sake!)
I just love driving and stopping; driving and stopping.
I took a few exits and eventually got on the A7. I’d been down this strip of autobahn about a hundred times with my mom and grandma. We had a motor home, you see, and drove around a lot. We went to Poland, Holland, the Czech Republic, and a helluva lot of other places. Since my grandmother’s stroke, we haven’t been travelling around much, though.
I reached Rothenberg within about ten hours; which was pretty good time, if I do say so myself. I parked in the lot right next to the old city walls and took a moment to stretch. My neck was stiff and my back hurt by now. Rothenberg was a beautiful town kept in a rustic style, its income relying completely on tourism. I felt very comfortable within the ancient stone walls, mainly because a lot of English was spoken there (due to the huge groups from England, America and Japan that came every day).
I gathered my belongings and stuffed them in my big green handbag, then hurried across the street and into the inner heart of Rothenberg. Since it was in the middle of the week and my Fall Break wasn’t parallel to the Bavarian holidays either, the streets were nearly empty. I knew every shop like the back of my hand by now. This not only meant that I had no trouble navigating through the allies and side-streets, but also that I knew exactly where to eat and sleep without spending a fortune for quality.
Within fifteen minutes of walking along the sunny sidewalk, I reached a lovely little pub with free rooms. It appeared to be an old barn house that was renovated and painted in a flattering cream tone. Inside, there were thick, dark rafters above head and an all-around quaint atmosphere. There were a lot of flower pots and lace curtains that the elderly woman at the counter had probably made herself. I checked in for 15 euro a night, breakfast included.
When I reached room, I immediately felt the urge to pat myself on the back. I’d, without a doubt, picked the nicest room out of the whole place. The furniture was made of dark, elegant wood and a special highlight caught my eye as well. There it was; a tiny balcony that let me overlook the cobblestone street below. A string of elongated flowerpots adorned the thin railing, making it seem ever quainter and cuter. It certainly was small. I could hardly fit through the little door with my bag, but it would do just fine.
I lit up a cigarette and stayed out on the balcony, looking around and feeling a little better now. I ran my hand through the geraniums in front of me. Thoughts swelled in my mind again. Would Kitty appreciate this view as much as me? It seemed like no matter what I thought or where I went, my thoughts always wandered back to her. I was in a town that she’d never even heard of, before I mentioned it the other day, and yet I somehow was able to connect this gorgeous view to my best friend.
After I’d finished my cigarette, I put it out in the flowerpot (that I vowed to clean before I left) and closed the door carefully. I hadn’t planned this trip and had no clothes with me. I had my laptop, a carton of Marlboro Reds, a half-empty bottle of Nestea, my cell phone, and my wallet with roughly 200€.
Time to go shopping. I locked my door and hurried outside, straight to the second-hand shop that my mom and I plundered every time we came to this place. I bought the necessities there and moved on to the more expensive stores. I bought a few accessories at Lola and S.Oliver, and then went to a pharmacy to get toiletries. (And more nail polish. They were marked down.)
I sat in a café, drank Latte Macchiato, and smoked some more. I watched the people around me as I usually did. I loved listening to them talk! Most of the people didn’t even realize that I could understand them. The limeys were especially amusing- I love their accent. Some Americans to my left were discussing the war on terrorism and my mood became sombre once more.
My father was a sergeant major in the Army. I should’ve been proud, I suppose. I mean, I was. But it depressed me at the same time. He worked four jobs, at one time. Policeman, sergeant major, federal marshal and he recruited young men for the US Army on the side. (1000 bucks a pop. Pretty sweet deal, actually)
My parents met while he was stationed in Germany, as a matter of fact. Both worked in the CID and basically made plans to meet for coffee or dinner on the side, while discussing the post-mortem circumstances of a corpse. Weird. Like I said, you don’t know the half of ‘weird’. Mom got pregnant with me, the two of them married, and when I was only half a year old, we moved to the United States.
Dad was always a very hard-working, red-blooded American. He was patriotic and had a sort of southern charm. He was the kind of guy that would immediately hold the door open for an old lady or who’d help you if your car broke down on the side of the road. Perhaps this was also why I got a strictly positive image of policemen when I was little, and it stayed planted in my mind. I remember distinctly, whilst I and my friends all went through this ‘defiant’, ‘rebellious’ phase (which some are still stuck in), and all my companions got in trouble with the law and complained about them later, I was the only one to stand up for the guys in blue. (Or green, in this case. I was in Germany, remember?)
Somehow, I was the only one to look the facts in the eye and say, “Hey! People! Maybe it’s just me but perhaps the policemen aren’t too jacked about picking up a bunch of drunken teenagers? You expect them to be friendly towards you after you threw up on their boots and screamed ‘ACAB’ in their faces? Good luck with that.”
So you see, I wasn’t always the paranoid, quiet girl you’re gradually getting to know. I used to be blunt and out-spoken. I could impress anyone with my reasoning and debating. By this time, however, loss and rejection really left scars. (And a decent hatred of men)
At that very moment, sitting in front of the café, I was probably thinking that everyone around me was somehow plotting against me.
I gathered up my things and stood up, trying to think of something to do. I could go bar-hopping later on but that seemed so awkward without Kitty or the rest of my usual comrades. After several hours of window-shopping and about ten cups of coffee later, I finally decided to retreat back to the pub and turn in for the night.
Life without a soul sucked. It was mundane. And I would have to get used it.
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