The rather large, chalk-white pill looked up at me from my palm as I poured a glass of water; it made taking the pill easier.
A migraine, and a pill to fix it, and a day I missed school one December in my junior year.
You had that tired, annoyed face on; the same face you always had when we were together, alone, and the coming light of another crimson dawn danced into the wrinkles of your face as you sat with that fatigued scowl. That face made the thought of what I was about to say unbearable; unbearable and insurmountable and unsurvivable. I tilted back, tossed the pill down my throat and drank the water loudly.
I turned to leave that room; I wanted to go hide somewhere, I wanted to be anywhere but in that room, facing you and the inevitable pain that would soon follow me after I said what I had to say. I wanted to hide somewhere and be nowhere.
Nowhere sounded good; it sounded beautiful, really. Maybe nowhere could be somewhere that I escaped to; maybe it could be a place where my brain didn’t work right and it just forgot everything and I could just live with stupid, reckless abandon. It could be more permanent than books and movies and music and alcohol. It would be a nowhere that was very empty and quiet and I could just stay there until forever was over, and then stay a few days after that. But it’s impossible to find nowhere, and I guess I’m doomed to always be somewhere.
And in this somewhere, you were sitting with that sad, tired look, and the dawn was proceeding and changing into flax-golden rays of light, and your eyes reflected with their gooseberry shine.
The migraine still hurt; the pill hadn’t started working yet, and every inch of me trembled with fear. Nowhere would have to wait.
“Mom, I need to tell you something…”