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It was worse when he drank. After a month of us living together in our apartment, he came home drunk from a night out with his new coworkers. He got mad when I refused to have sex with him, so he tore the apartment apart. I’m surprised our neighbors didn’t call the cops, but it was a busy city, and they’re probably used to tuning out domestic disturbances. I was lucky he didn’t hurt me. He only upturned furniture and broke a few dishes.
He apologized the next morning and swore it would never happen again. I didn’t believe him, but I wasn’t ready to admit my failure, that I shouldn’t have moved away from home in the first place. From that point on we acted as roommates and nothing more, only communicating when necessary. It felt like a good solution for about a month, but the entire time I was walking on eggshells.
Unfortunately, after a few more unnecessary fights, instigated by him, I’d seen enough red flags. I knew I was done, but I felt stuck. I needed time to get my things in order to make a clean break and leave. It took a few weeks to get my affairs back in order.
Slowly, I packed my things so it wasn’t obvious, and made sure I acted as normal as possible to avoid any awkwardness or hostility. I cleared out all of my mail and personal documents, making sure I would be leaving no trace of myself once I was ready to go. All the while I made dinner for him, and sat on the couch with him in the evenings when he did come home, never mentioning my plan to leave. His erratic moods left me feeling too unsafe. I don’t know how I couldn’t have seen that side of him from the start of our relationship. Gone was the friendly boy I watched Star Trek movies with. In his place was a possessive, angry man.
Last night was the final straw. He came home drunk again, immediately getting in my face demanding I have sex with him. Of course, I didn’t want to. I hadn’t been intimate with him at all since the first drunken incident. Deep down, I think he knew I was planning to leave even though I hadn’t said anything. This time, his tantrum was worse. I genuinely feared for my life, and I thought for sure he was going to hit me. Instead, he left multiple fist-sized holes in the drywall right next to my head.
He didn’t touch me, yet I was terrorized. Something on my face must’ve made him realize he fucked up. As soon as his eyes focused on my tears, or maybe he saw the fear on my face, he turned and bolted from the apartment. That was the last I saw him. I ran around gathering the bags I had packed and left. It was late, and I was exhausted, so I drove to the first Walmart I saw and slept in my car in the parking lot.
Slept is putting it generously. I spent most of the night overanalyzing every decision I’ve ever made in my life, hyper-vigilant of my surroundings since I was alone in my car in an unfamiliar area. It felt like payback for all the times I berated myself for not being more adventurous, and always playing things too safe. Being out of my comfort zone would be putting it mildly, and look where it’s gotten me.
I was so ready to move away from home, to “see the world” and all that crap, always seeing the latest travel trends and feeling like I was missing out. However, I don’t think I’ve ever craved a home base more than I do now. Unfortunately, even when I get back to my parents’ house, I know it won’t quite feel like home anymore. It’s a familiar place, but I’ve outgrown it. I have no next step, no plan. I’m perpetually one step away from reaching my final destination. That’s how I’ve always felt.
It terrifies me because my whole life has been about following the master plan. From the moment my fifth-grade teacher suggested I take advanced math classes, I started worrying about my grade point average. My GPA would get me into a good college, but I needed extra-curricular activities if I wanted scholarships. From student counsel to track and field, I worked my ass off, just to stay on the right path.
When college rolled around, I did everything by the book. Earned every credit as efficiently as possible to graduate as fast as possible to get a good job. Then I did exactly that. I landed a job that utilized all my strengths, and let me excel at all the things I had put so much time and effort into. After working remotely for two years in an apartment I paid for all on my own, I felt stagnant. Even though it was everything I had ever wanted, I wasn’t happy.
It seems unfair. I followed all the rules, and only led myself by logic, yet I couldn’t figure out what I was supposed to be doing next. So, I jumped headfirst into a relationship. The one time I forced myself to throw caution to the wind, and it backfired completely.
I’m ready to go back to my boring, cut-and-dry life, but is that all there is for me?
I’ve been driving for four hours now and I still don’t have my answer. With two more to go until I’m “home,” I’m hoping for an epiphany.
I called my mom this morning and told her what happened. She didn’t tell me “I told you so” even though I deserved it, but she did scold me for not calling her sooner.
“Callie Anne, your dad would have come and got you. Day or night. We would have come to help you.”
“I know, Mom. I just needed to do it on my own. I’m sorry.”
“I’m just glad you’re okay, sweetie.”
“Me too, Mom. I love you guys. I’ll be home soon.”
Deep breaths. I try to distract myself again from my thoughts, not needing the fresh wave of tears to escape my eyes like they want to. I try the radio again, but only get static and old man talk shows.
The highway is still empty. I’ve only seen a few cars here and there, and the road is starting to straighten out. I’m afraid without all the curves and bends to pay attention to I’ll start zoning out. Maybe I’ll stop at the next exit, and get some more caffeine and some lunch to get through the rest of my drive.
POP! THUMP! Thump, thump, thump… My wheel jerks to the right.
No… Please don’t let this happen, I do not want to deal with a flat tire right now. Slowly, I maneuver my car to the shoulder, and from the jerky way it’s handling, something is severely wrong.
I check my phone, and of course, there still isn’t any service. I’m still two hours from home too. Who would I even call? UGH.
Dammit, if I don’t have the tools or skill to fix my flat I will be stuck walking. I don’t even remember the last gas station I passed, or any signs indicating one up ahead. Shit.
As I get out of my car to check the damage, the pit of anxiety in my stomach makes me slightly nauseous. Yep. Really freaking flat. Fuck my life.
I’m surprised it’s not raining, that would put the icing on the cake for this shitty day. I’m sure my ex would be laughing in my face right now, telling me that I deserve it. Although, as bad as a flat tire in the middle of nowhere is, I have no regrets about getting away from him.
As I wallow in self-pity, I pop my trunk and brace myself for the task at hand. I’m lucky enough to have a father who forced me to change a tire before I ever even had my license. Lifting the cover off of the spare, I thank God that there is a jack and tire iron right next to it. I’ve had this car for a few years but have never thought to check. The spare is heavy but manageable, I make quick work of lifting it out and rolling it over to where the flat is.
The rumble of an engine approaching draws my attention as I pull all of the tools out. It’s the first car that has come by since I’ve been pulled over on this deserted freeway.
I look over my shoulder toward the sound and see a beat-up gray work van slowing down. My stomach coils tightly. Alarm bells start going off in my head. I’ve never been more nervous about being alone than I am right now, and there’s probably no one around for miles.
Maybe I’m just being judgemental. Maybe it’s a nice old man who is dying to help a damsel in distress. My optimism fades as the vehicle rolls to a stop about 10 feet from the back of the car, the brakes loudly protesting, making me cringe.
