(Author’s note: Each chapter of this story will be told from a different perspective.  The grammatical errors are on purpose, so don’t feel obligated to mention it if you review.  (Please?)  There will be about 15 chapters when I’m done, give or take.) Mariana

I’ve had about all I can take.  And so I’ve packed, and I am sitting on the edge of my bed, waiting for my mother to fall asleep, waiting for that slim moment of opportounity.  Waiting for a chance to slip away.  To disappear. 

But no more will I stay here.  I will be out of reach.  Out of your life.  Don’t lie to me; I know you want it that way.  I know I was never supposed to be born.  I was an accident.  I have no father.  I have no identity.  You tried to get rid of me, I know you did, everyone said it was ‘for the best.’    I know that that’s the way it was, don’t lie to me.  Don’t lie.  You wanted them, oh yes, they were planned.  Jonny and Rachela, they’re Paul’s.  He was here for a while, taking care of them, even me, but one day we woke up and he was gone.  And I know you believe I drove him to do it.  I was not his, I was not his, I am not yours.  I am no one’s.  Why should anyone care what happens to me.  So I will be like Paul, you will wake up and I will be gone.  I will be responsible for myself, only me.  But you will never have a chance to say a word, because I will be gone before you wake.

            I sit watching the green digits on my bedside clock tick nearer and nearer to 4:30, the time that I need to leave by to catch my bus.  I would swear that time was slowing down, trying to keep me trapped in this room, the walls shrinking, coming closer and closer like in my nightmares.  Close enough, I mutter, and stand up as quietly as possible.  Not quietly enough.  Mariana? says my little sister in the bed next to me.  Where are you going?  I can’t sleep, I lie.  I need a snack.  She nods, accepting this, and sinks back onto her pillow.  See you tomorrow, she murmurs.  My heart breaks as I watch her.  God, I love her.  I hope she knows that, I hope she knows this is not her fault.  But I learned a long time ago not to trust to hope.  I stride quickly from the room, my hair swishing behind me, not looking back, knowing that I will not be able to leave if I do.

            I walk the thirteen blocks to the bus station, my duffel bag growing heavier with each step.  I arrive slightly out of breath and pink-faced, or maybe that’s just the cold.  One-way to Boston, I say.  The attendant, a large man who looks as though his wife has to stuff him in his clothes each morning, leans over and squints at me.  There is fish on his breath.  Your Momma know where you’re going, Missy?  I give him a patronizing look and say Of course.  I hand him the money and plop down on a cold wooden bench.  I wait. Hearing a throttling whoosh, I look up through my curtain of hair, and I see a gray, rather unappealing bus pull up, and four exhausted-looking people get off.  A young mother with a child of about two, a dignified business man with enormous bags under his eyes, and an old lady, all hunched over and leaning on her cane.  The four march, toddle, and wobble out the door.

            Nervously, though of course I try not to show it, I climb the few steps onto the bus.  To my surprise, the seats look rather comfortable.  Of course, a rock would look comfortable at five in the morning.  I thump heavily onto an empty seat, and immediately learn that I have been gravely mistaken in my comfyness assessment.  The seat is hard as a Rachela’s brownies and the fabric is itchy to boot.  I settle myself as best I can, glancing out the window.  The sun is rising, gloriously and achingly red.  Against my will, my head turns, and I catch a last glimpse of our square, gray, house, disappearing around the bend.