Virginie T. - Run Away, My Angel

I leave the house without saying a word and without looking back. Brandon kindly offered me to take his car. I bite my tongue so as not to tell him that he could shove the key up to where I thought. As if it were not to later on scold me for having used HIS car! I'd rather have my feet on fire walking than endure another humiliation.

I don't know how long I have been walking along the road, but the strap of my travel bag is starting to hurt my shoulder and my legs have trouble supporting my weight, to which it is now added the weight of my big bag. I drag myself around aimlessly, not knowing where to go, when a car pulls up next to me. I turn my head in the opposite direction, having no desire to explain to a stranger what I am doing on the side of the road with my stuff on my back. The unwelcome stranger decides otherwise. I hear the passenger window coming down and the music coming from the car twists my eardrums. The hard-core music is carried by the wind at a mind-boggling sound level. Suddenly the sound dies off and a voice that I did not expect addresses me.

— Mal? What are you doing here?

I turn around to be sure I am not hallucinating, but no, it is my friend behind the wheel of his car. I would cry for joy if my tears were not dry. All I do is stare at him, without moving or answering. He then decides to pull over to the side of the road and goes around the car to join me.

— You're okay?

I nod, unable to speak.

— Let me help you.

He takes my bag and throws it in the trunk before opening the passenger door.

— Hop in. I'll take you home. Let’s both talk and you’ll tell me what's going on.

I get into the car like an automaton, always silent, and my friend straps on my seatbelt that I did not even have the reflex to do. I suddenly feel less alone and I hope that emptying my bag will allow me to see more clearly and have a plan for the future, because I cannot wander aimlessly forever.

I realize I had never been to his house. Not even once. His house is small, away from the road and from any neighbors. The small path which leads to his front door is rough and I jump on my seat. That dangerously stirs my stomach, which revolts with these chaotic movements.

— Sorry. I haven't had time to fix the outside of the house yet.

I give him a weak smile, keeping my mouth tight so as not to vomit on the gear stick. Fortunately, it does not last more than a minute and we park in front of a small exposed brickwork house that has a crazy charm.

— It's very pretty.

He smiles at me and a dimple appears on his left cheek.

— Thank you, I inherited it from my grandmother a few years back and I've been trying to revamp it ever since.

He goes around the car to open my door, very gentlemanly.

— Come on. I'll make you a nice cup of tea and we can talk.

He grabs my hand and I think of rejecting it. I have not held the hand of any one but Brandon’s for a long time and this strange, bigger, stronger hand leaves an unpleasant impression on me. My host does not notice my distress and makes me go inside by an old wooden red door that closes after I come in. I barely have time to detail his entrance decorated with a mirror that leads me to a state-of-the-art kitchen, perfectly equipped, with a huge piano and a large island lined with comfortable high stools.

— Sit down there. I'll prepare you some tea.

I take the opportunity to turn around and look at the house with curious eyes. Everything is modern, friendly looking, and yet I feel awkward. There are no photos, no trinkets, no traces of life. Everything is superb, but sanitized, like a show house without a soul. It is difficult to imagine that a single man lives in this place. Where is the mess? The dirty laundry lying around? Any sign of life, please!

— You take two sugars, don’t you?

I turn my attention back to my friend.

— Yes, thank you.

He places my cup in front of me and I take advantage of the warmth on my hands to refocus. It feels good to be taken care of. However, I have to think about what comes next.

— Are you ready to tell me what happened after you hung up?

It is true that when we spoke, I was in tears, confined in my car. My ex-car. Everything became ex after that phone call.

— I told you to call me if you needed to.

— I didn't want to disturb you.

Which is true. In part. I already felt I was a burden for my ex-fiancé. I did not want to become one for Leon, the friend who has supported me in recent months, against all odds.

— You’ll never bother me Mal. I have already told you.

He plays with my fingers on the table and a shiver lifts my spine. I get my hand back and I hug my shoulders to warm me, although I doubt that the cold is responsible for my goosebumps.

— I had an argument with Brandon.

The memory of the last words uttered by the ex-love of my life clogs my throat with a ball as big as a football.

— It's going to get better Mal. As always.

The ball gets bigger in my windpipe. I feel like I am suffocating,

— No. No, it's not going to get any better. He asked me to leave. He wants us to take a break.

I start laughing with a laugh that is both hysterical and somewhat frightening, even to my ears.

— Everyone knows what it means to take a break. He has broken up. He has left me. For good.

Leon purses his lips in front of me which now become invisible behind his full black beard.

— Brandon is an idiot. He will regret it.

My laughter gradually turns into tearful sobs and a torrent of tears invades my face before I realize it. It seems that the tear fountain has not dried up.

— He swept away more than two years of relationship as if nothing had happened. As if this time together did not matter. The only one to blame is me. I should have made more effort. I should have listened to his fears. He just wanted me to find a job and...

— Shh. Stop it Mal. Breathe. You're holding your breath.

The fact is I have taken no air during my tirade. Remorse takes my breath away. Leon caresses my back from bottom to top, instructing me to inhale and exhale on his rhythm. The heat of his palm crosses the fabric of my top and once again, I find that he is getting too close to me.

— I'm going to go.

— Don't be silly Mallory. You're not in a position to go anywhere. You don't even have a car. Do you have a place to go at least?

I slump a little more in my seat, shoulders hunched.

— I'm going to have to go back to my parents.

Despite my reluctance, I have no other options. Tears of shame bead in the corner of my eyes. Soon I will turn 27 and I will have to return to live with my parents as if I were a child. I am angry at myself for being unable to be responsible of myself.

— You could stay here for a while.

I jerk my head up and I look at Leon as if a third head or a horn had sprung out of his forehead.

— That's very nice of you Leon, but it's not a good idea.

He stands up his whole height, towering over me, and something like fear creeps into me.

— It wasn’t really a suggestion, Mal.

I get up and walk back to the door.

— You're starting to scare me, Leon. It's better if I go.

He walks towards me like a predator cornering his prey. That is exactly how I feel: a prey stuck against a door that refuses to open despite my desperate attempts to turn the handle.

— We're going to be fine the two of us, Mal.

His words have a hard time breaking through the fog of my panic. I shake my head, but I feel like it is wrapped in cotton. I have a hard time putting my thoughts together and when I open my mouth, I suddenly feel my tongue weighs a ton. Halfway to the door I collapse as Leon gets closer and closer. He does not seem worried about my sudden weakness and a suspicion takes hold on me.