I hear the incessant tick of my Tudor as it rests on a pile of clothes on the counter. Thoughts hang on me like a weighted blanket. I look past my vacant gaze and into something smoldering within. I open my mouth to scream.
An alarm pierces my skin like a thousand paper cuts.
The fog lifts and I wish I was still asleep.
It's time.
A bucket of cold water waits on the counter. I use it sparingly, move quickly and with precision. Wash, check. Brush, check. Clothes, check. Shoes, check. Bag, check.
Timing is important.
Another alarm sounds as I move deftly down the weathered staircase. An interior door opens, but I’m already outside engaging the deadbolt with one hand and retreating further inside my jacket with the other. The keys cast long, sharp shadows across my hand. Like a thief, I stow them in a hidden pocket and retrieve my gloves.
Seven hours.
I walk the same route. Each step closer to and further from my destination. Each step closer to and further from myself.
I'm here.
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