PRESENT
DAY
I had no end goal.
No end
destination.
There was
nowhere for me to go, nobody waiting to greet me with open arms.
For the first
time in my life, I was truly and completely alone—and I was one-hundred percent
okay with it.
Alone, you couldn’t
hurt—not in the physical sense.
Alone, you
didn’t have to worry about watching your back and sleeping with your eyes open.
Alone, and
the only person you had to please—to
impress—was yourself. So far though, I couldn’t exactly say ‘impressed’ was
the word for what I thought of myself. I glanced at the cup holder, the tiny
red inhaler mocking me.
It wasn’t
like I could just…drop off the end of earth.
Hell, I was
driving a car that didn’t belong to me! My friend Carter—the only friend I had
in my life, and I only met her two months ago—had one of her brothers hook me
up with a means of transportation. Eventually I was going to have to get into
contact with her—or her brother at the very least—and return the car.
So maybe alone wasn’t the full truth. I had one
person, maybe two, in my corner. Carter and her brother, who were two of seven,
swore I was one of them. Could it be possible I actually had seven people in
that dark, dusty corner?
I scoffed at
the idea. That would mean Carter and I would remain friends when the month was
up and she rejoined the world, but she was going on to bigger and better—more
exciting—things, while me?
Well, I was
driving to Who-the-fuck-cares, and was staying for who-the-hell-knew-how-long.
All I knew
was that I was no longer Genevieve Asher Spencer.
I still had a
little over a month before I turned eighteen, but I was emancipated from the
state of Tennessee and with help, I legally changed my name to Asher Spence.
Genevieve was
a foster kid who failed, and who was
failed.
Asher was
strong as steel, and there wasn’t a damn thing in the world that was going to
stop her—at least, that was my goal.
I literally
only had myself to answer to. I didn’t have any long lost siblings to find. I
had no desire to find my birth parents.
There was
just me, driving along the spider web of freeways until I found a place that
simply “felt” right. Then maybe I’d find something worth living for. I refused
to believe I was put on this earth for nothing more than being a foster care
kid who the system failed.
I continued
driving up I-94, passing through Chicago and going north into Wisconsin. Each
time I saw an exit sign, I made a split decision: keep going, or turn. This
journey was completely random and it felt good.
Good to be
driving, to be moving. I needed to be moving.
The
standstill traffic of Chicago nearly sent me into a panic attack. Too much
downtime was not so great for the memories. Those visions, the reliving my
nightmares? They needed to stay the fuck in the past. I didn’t need them in my
future.
Nor in my
present.
I tapped my
thumbs on the steering wheel as the radio DJ faded into one of the newer radio
hits. I hadn’t been too privy with music the last two months; didn’t have radio
or television where I just left. Most of the music that continued to play, I’d
never heard before, but after fourteen hours of the stuff I found myself
humming along to the notes and melodies.
Fighting off
a yawn, I popped the top of a new can of Monster sitting in the cup holder next
to me. With my eyes on the road, I chugged down the large can, taking deep
breaths through my nose as I did.
When it was
empty, I squeezed the aluminum with my hand and let it join the litter of other
cans at the floor of the passenger seat.
I was going
to have to find a place to stop soon. It wasn’t like I could just drive and
drive and drive until I found a place to call home for however long I decided.
I’d left the east coast, South Carolina to be precise, at six last night and
drove through the night hours, over and through the mountains. It didn’t prove
to be my brightest idea but hey, I did it, I made it, and now I was somewhere
north of Chicago.
I wasn’t sure
when I started heading north rather than west, but like I said—I didn’t have an
end goal.
The last week
had been a whirlwind but shit, my entire life had been one catastrophe after
another.
I left one
hell only to be kicked out of another. I pinched my mouth together, pissed at
myself for the reminder of my fuck ups.
I looked down
to my right arm, at the still healing mass of colors swirling there. That was
one good thing about being on my own—I could do whatever the fuck I wanted, and
if those prestigious assholes, who could do nothing other than yell at you,
didn’t want me? Well then, dammit, I was doing something for me.
Not even four
hours after being kicked out, I found myself in a tattoo parlor that was
recommended by some of the tattooed men in the area—there were a number of them
where I just left—and was handing over a sketch I’d been working on during the
night hours when everyone else was writing letters home. I had a day or two to
kill, so I spent my hours in a tattoo chair. Now, aside from the red healing,
my arm was a mass of watercolor swashes and blots. When I was told there may be
discomfort and that I should consider a multi-day session, I simply shrugged it
off.
Nothing could
come close to what I’d already been through in my seventeen years.
Near my
wrist, the colors were more earthy, blues and greens—a reminder to keep my feet
on the ground. Toward my shoulder, the colors were darker, navy and dark
purple—a reminder that it was still ok to dream. In that rich, deep purple,
cutting through the color and giving way to my flesh, was a beautiful mandala
with intricate bead work falling from the lower petals.
Being
left-handed, the thought was the right side of the brain worked differently;
therefore, I put the mandala on my right shoulder. Mandalas were said to help
ease the chatter going on in one’s mind and, beyond the fact the final design
was fucking gorgeous, I liked the idea behind it.
Maybe it
would work, maybe it wouldn’t.
The underside
of my arm, from wrist to elbow, was a seemingly simple arrow done in black. It
was feminine and dainty, yet strong. The arrow head itself was simple, and the feathers
at the end were beautifully realistic, but the shaft flowed into and through
the word ‘hero,’ after another tattoo I’d seen once before.
I’m the hero of my story.
Off-center of
the word, around the ‘e’ and extending just past the ‘o,’ was a perfectly
dotted circle, with a smaller, solid lined circle coming off of it.
An arrow can only go forward after being
pulled back.
With my right
hand on the wheel now, I took my left hand and ran my fingers over the word.
I was my own
hero. I didn’t need anyone.
After all, no
one needed me.
Winski and Leeds: An Enforcers of San Diego Collection Kindle Edition by Mignon Mykel
