A Darker Shade
The outside of the bus window is covered in flecks of dirt, but the inside isn't much better. I rest my head against it nonetheless, trying to angle my body against the seat in a way that's somewhat comfortable. Needless to say, I'm not doing very well in succeeding.
The lights of the city are growing more distant now. I catch myself watching them, heavy-lidded, mascara-smudged eyes addicted, and pry myself away.
It would be a lie to say I won't miss it.
And you always told me I was a terrible liar.
I was even more terrible at matching clothes, or putting on nailpolish without getting it all over my fingers, or being quiet and reading in vehicles. In one of the two bags I have with me (a backpack and a tow along suitcase) I know I have a novel or two, though I'm not sure why I brought them.
Mother, you wanted me to be a nice girl. You wanted me to be a good girl, with a good job and a good future ahead of her.
And Father, you didn't give a fuck, so why should I?
I don't belong at home anymore. If I were to stay, it would just be too awkward. I know you would always grow quiet when I told you I wanted you to meet my new girlfriend, and you would wince when I told you I got fired again, and your would sigh when you realized that there was absolutely no chance of me going back to college. It's not my thing. I'm a person made of experiences and emotion. I'm not math or science or whatever the Hell else they were trying to teach me there.
I'm a person who wears blue jeans to bed, and runs off for days to go on adventures, and is broke yet again.
My name is Sara. Your daughter. Not the daughter you wanted, but the daughter you got.
At least I won't be around to slam your doors anymore, eh?
I'm getting further and further away from you now, as the bus continues on and away from the mess that was the city. I can feel my teeth rattling, my forehead smacking against the grimey window as we go over rough spots in the road. It's too late to go back now.
You don't know me anymore, Mother. You haven't for a while. And I wish I'd known you a little better in the same way I don't.
Even so, Mother, I know you know I'll be writing home whenever I can afford it.
If only to keep from worrying too much.