Zhanna Slor - At the End of the World, Turn Left

“Friends of yours?” I ask Liam, after they’ve checked us out a second time. I look closer, and they don’t look familiar to me at all.

“No, I think they’re looking at you . That’s why I’ve been calling,” Liam says. He reaches into his back pocket and produces a piece of paper from his duck taped wallet. On the paper is a drawing of a face.

My face.

“Doesn’t this look just like you?” he asks. I look at the drawing again, and have to admit it really does have a strong resemblance to me. Almost as if they got me to draw the thing myself. I read the text at the bottom. It says: “The Milwaukee Police Department is searching for a person of interest in several local robberies. If you have seen this woman, please call the number below.”

My breath escapes in a sudden gasp, my hands letting go of the flyer. The paper falls to the ground, and Liam picks it up. “So it is you,” he says. “I thought you just had a doppelganger out there robbing people.”

I stand up, wobbly legs be damned, and take a very long breath. I don’t have time to relax at a party. I need to make myself scarce. “I really gotta go Liam. Thanks for the booze. And the cigarette.”

“Wait,” he says, standing up too, and grabbing a hold of me. “Why don’t you stay? Just for the night.”

“I’m really not in the mood for a party.”

“We can go hang out in my room if you want,” he says. “Come on, it’s getting late. And you seem really fucked up. Let me be there for you.”

I look at him, weighing my options carefully. I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life than what I know in that moment: I need to get the hell out of Milwaukee. And in order to do that, I would need to make some sacrifices. Starting with Zoya’s money, which I no longer have access to. I don’t have a clue where Tristan has been keeping it, and my backpack is gone. And who knows if he was even able to make it out of there in one piece, with that dog on his leg. When he does, I doubt the first thing on his mind would be to find me. He’ll need to find a doctor. It gives me the perfect window to go without having to also break up with him. But it also leaves me broke. “Do you have a computer?” I ask Liam.

“What am I, Amish?” Liam asks, laughing. “Of course I fucking have a computer.”

“Okay. I just need to stop at home for second to grab a few things.”

Tristan isn’t back at the apartment, which doesn’t surprise me. As much as I don’t want to see him, I’m sure he doesn’t want to see me. First, he had put me in real danger. Then he threw his sobriety out the window like it was nothing. And to top it off, he stole my bag. I have a lot of things I need in that bag. My sketch pad, an extra set of clothes and underwear, an iPod with headphones, the expensive winter coat I took from the party, and my beloved (if not very in need of repair) Converse. Now I’d be stuck in my shitty winter boots for who knows how long.

Admittedly, I have bigger problems than a few missing items. I keep my wallet in my coat, so I still have ID and about fifty dollars cash, but without Tristan, that would be all the money I have to my name. Plus, my face is all over the walls of the Milwaukee Police Department. If that isn’t a sign to get the hell out of Dodge, I don’t know what would be. I don’t even bother to look for our money because I know there’s none in the apartment. I simply grab an empty garbage bag from the kitchen and start filling it up with everything I need. I would not be coming back ever again.

It doesn’t take long; I left most of my things at my parents’ house. Not ten minutes later, I’m back on my bicycle heading west to Valhalla. I go straight to Liam’s room to find him totally passed out in his bed. I’m half annoyed and half relieved. I think about leaving, but then I see his computer is on and I sit down for a minute to write Zoya. I don’t even open the two new emails I received from her, because I already know what they’re going to say and I’ve had enough of people threatening me and trying to use my good nature as a weapon. It’s time I start taking care of myself.

Dear Zoya,

Go ahead, tell the whole world what my dad did. I am no longer taking responsibility for his actions. It’s time I start making my own decisions, poor or otherwise.

P.S. My dad would probably rather deplete his entire life savings on lawyers than pay you a dime, so really, good luck in court.

I breathe a sigh of relief, knowing that is no longer on my plate. I tell myself I won’t give it another thought. Now, I really have no one stopping me from doing anything I want. And, unlike before, I know exactly what that is. It’s definitely not going to Ukraine; I’ve flirted quite enough with danger, I don’t need to risk more. And it’s not going back to school. It’s something else altogether. I pick up Liam’s cell phone from the floor and call a number I have used so many times that I have it memorized.

“Hey,” I say into the speaker. “Where are you right now?”

The following morning, I wake up yet again to a very loud banging on the door.

“Masha!”

I sit up, hitting my head on a hanging plant. “Ow,” I say aloud as I walk to the door, rubbing my head with a palm. Who would be knocking like that so early in the morning? Who even knows I’m here? It certainly doesn’t sound like Rose. She has a spare key hidden somewhere, and, as always, she doesn’t seem to enjoy being home. Spending so much time in her apartment without her there reminds me why I moved out so quickly after she’d replaced June; Rose was practically never there. And Emily, she’d disappeared almost entirely, too, after June had died. I couldn’t blame her now, though I did, then. We should have both moved out right away, instead of trying to live there like nothing had ever happened. Because everywhere we looked, we saw June’s dead body; I saw it every time I passed the door of her old room, I remembered it when I used her dishes, I dreamt of it, so cold and blue, my sleep. She may not literally have been haunting us, but in a way, her presence did plague us. And because I never addressed it, it only grew from there. Soon she began haunting Center Street, and Riverwest, and the entire city of Milwaukee, until I had to get as far away as I could.

I’m not sure why I no longer feel her here—maybe time really does heal—but now, I am starting to remember what I used to like about Riverwest, not only the bad stuff. How every other block, you run into people you know, or at least look familiar. How cyclists speed by you no matter what the weather; it could be blizzarding out and a guy in all black would still ride past you through the snow, covered in winter gear. Most importantly, it’s so small; you could walk from any bar or cafe in Riverwest all the way home in less than fifteen minutes. And this, the fact that people will show up at your door with no warning and knock on it. It’s like we’re living in the eighties.

“Who is it?” I ask. I turn to check the clock on the microwave and am surprised to learn it’s eight in the morning. I’m so tired I thought it could still be the middle of the night. Or, maybe I’m hungover. Yes, that’s it. I’m hungover for the first time in years.

“It’s your dad,” the voice answers. Either I am still half asleep or unusually bewildered, but I can’t figure out why my dad would be here. So I open the door partway, trying to blink the sleep away from my eyes.

“You’re not answering your phone,” Papa says in Russian. “I’ve been worried.”