Trapped
I’m sitting in my house alone. In the dark. In the dark like always when I’m here alone. Sitting on the couch. My couch. My boss in my old town gave it to me. It looked like something salvaged from the Salvation Army. Boy did it need some salvation. It was faded, braded pink and turquoise green thread. There were long vertical slits in it. Small wooden pegs were on all four corners. One was loose. Dad fixed it. Mom bought a kaki cover for it. When she put it on, she put the cushions on top. She covered the cushions with furry white material. The couch gets lots of compliments when my roommate has company over. I hear them from my dark room in the back of the house. “What a fabulous couch.” “I love the couch, wherever did you come up with such a find?” I cringe. “Damn sorority girls. It’s MY couch,” I think. The couch is where I spend most of my time when I’m not cleaning-since the only place I go is to class. I won’t drive-I refuse to drive. The only time I go back to my hometown, which is two hours away, is when my mom or dad comes to pick me up. I walk fifteen blocks one way to school. I hate crossing streets. When I have to cross, I stop and look both ways what seems like hundreds of times. I listen and when I am sure nothing is close or visible, I sprint across the street like a racehorse out of its gate. When walking on sidewalks, I am careful to stay far from the road a possible.
I just had the house immaculate right before the roommate’s “sisters” came over. They will mess it up. I will have to sterilize everything they touch to perfect it again. That’s what roommate is good for-to soil the house. She also pays rent so I don’t have to. My parents own the house. They said either I could pay rent or I could have a roommate and she could pay rent. They really just wanted me to have a roommate instead of a job. They thought it wouldn’t be good for me to be alone all the time. Alone is my favorite. Roommate is needy. She never does anything on her own. It’s always, “Scarlet, go to Wal-Mart with me” or “There’s a football game this weekend, do you want to go with me and my sisters?” She doesn’t ask as much now. I think she almost grasps that alone is my game. It’s what I’m good at. I can go into extra innings being alone. A close second favorite thing is darkness. And nothing beats being alone in the dark.
I wasn’t always like this though. Not until the “accident.” The accident no one here knows about or would need to know. I was a cheerleader in high school. I ran cross-country. Running and working out were my favorite things to do. I had friends. Lots of friends. I was popular. I went to college in my hometown to a small regional university. I was popular there. I ran cross-country there. I was the best girl runner. I was captain of the girl’s team. My boyfriend was captain of the boy’s team. Koby. We were happy. We were best friends. We were in love. With running and with each other. We were dedicated to both tremendously.
Now I’m here sitting alone in the dark. Petting my couch. Stroke. Stroke. One hand on either side of me. Running up and down the soft full furry fabric. Looking out the window for hours at a time. Never blinking or moving-except for my hands stroking the couch. I learn a lot about the neighborhood. A crazy old man and woman stagger by every afternoon on the way to buy more liquor and cigarettes. The woman always wears pink sweatpants and a ratty old white tee shirt. An image was once on the front, but it has been long worn off. The man she is with has a terrible limp. He always wears faded brown dress pants that sag with hiking boots. He usually has on a pearl snap shirt buttoned so that it is not straight, but off by one and uneven. Both the man and woman’s hair look dirty and unkept-even from a distance. The man tries to cover his with a hat. A black man rides back and forth on his bike singing “Oh Happy Day.” His voice is piercing and high-pitched. It carries through the glass in my window. I want him to stop. It’s not a happy day. It’s never a happy day. My next-door neighbors on the south side party all the time. They are my age and each probably drink 30 beers a day. They stole my trash can. I took it back one night. People from their parties come to my yard and drop their beer cans. They stuff Styrofoam cups in the big cedar trees on either side of the front of my green house. Green. The favorite color that Koby and I shared. I go out late at night when everyone else in the world is asleep and throw the cans back to the neighbor’s yard. I take the cups in and throw them away. Alone. In the dark.
Sometimes, when it’s sunny outside, I think to myself, “ This is a good day for a run.” On days like this, Koby and I would run together. Our feet and breathing would form a steady hypnotic rhythm together on the pavement. Tap, tap, breath, breath, tap, tap, breath, breath. After running, the trainers would have two huge ice baths waiting on us. We would submerge ourselves up to our necks in the cold icy water. We would talk each other through these. They were always grueling at first, but they are the best thing for your muscles after a long run. On these sunny days, sometimes, I even put on shorts and a tee shirt, followed by socks and running shoes. I put my hair into a ponytail and wash my face so that my sweat won’t clog my pores. I walk slowly to the door. Once there, I grip the doorknob. I look out the peephole. My heart races. It’s hard to breath. “I can’t go out there. I can’t run. What if it happens again?” I hate sunny days. I want darkness. I crave darkness. At times, it seems like even the light on the microwave that displays the time is too much luminosity. Illumination is happy and that is something I am definitely not.
That is why I’m here at a new school. After the accident, my parents thought it would be good for me to get away. And it has been better than it would have been if I had stayed. At my old school, I was a journalism major. After the accident, with all the reporters in my face, I despised the profession. All the “hard hitting” questions they were asking. “Did you see the car coming?” “Did it look like it was headed for him?” “Did he have any enemies?” “Did you get a good look at the car?” “What was it like when it hit him?” “How did you react?”