The bus rumbled along the road. I held my backpack in my lap, the canvas material rough and unpleasant against my fingertips.
"What time is it?" I ask. I don't really know where anyone is, but I'm hoping someone will be close enough to hear me and answer.
"About 2 AM." Someone says. Kind of a high-pitched voice, but maybe not a girl.
"Thanks." I murmur, hugging my bag.
"Where are you going?" They ask.
"Utah," I tell them.
"Well, that's very descriptive," they chuckle. "Can you be more specific? I'm curious."
"I'd rather not."
"Fair enough."
I don't feel like talking right now. I've been sitting on this bus seat for almost seven hours. The thought that soon the ride will be over is comforting but I can still feel a rock in my throat. Is this a good idea? I can always just go home and pretend this never happened. The house is still mine.
The cabin will always be there, if I ever feel like it's time.
I'm practically in Lewiston already, though, so what's the point? I might as well go, see how I feel, and go from there. It might even be fun.
Probably not. I can feel my mother's presence growing over me, the closer I come. A conflict between the little girl I saw while we were at that cabin and the painfully cruel, terrifying woman I saw the last time we spoke.
My skin crawls with goosebumps, and I touch my cheek. I had never been scared of anyone else like I was scared of her. She put me beside myself, I analyzed every tiny tone shift. She grew quiet before she exploded, and so every moment of silence put me on edge. To this day, comfortable silence is hard to come by.
When I saw her again, years after I'd moved away, she seemed real again. It felt like I had created a monster in my head, someone who lurked in nightmares and in the shadows, but they weren't really real.
And then that cruelty reappeared. Soft, almost hidden, at first, and I felt an aversion, but it was a comfort to know that I hadn't created everything. Fear was absent, still, but anger and resentment returned. And then she slapped me.
I was a child again. My mother, even being a full head shorter than me, towered over me. I found myself apologizing, without knowing for what. Instinctively taking the blame, taking steps back as she advanced, advanced, advanced. Coming closer and getting louder.
The woman who had ruled with an iron fist over my childhood was still very much real, and she put the fear of God into me that day. I said "I'm sorry" more times than I ever have before, and I begged her to stop and just go. She slapped me again when she noticed I was about to cry.
I don't remember how long the visit was, but I remember she left and I had a panic attack that lasted until it was dark.
Even now, as I sit here in this bus, I can feel my heart starting to pound. I try to control my breathing. She's dead, now, and I'm safe from her. She must be dead.
The bus lurches to a stop and I hear the doors open up.
"St. Lewiston." Says the voice from overhead.
I get up. I'm finally here. Now I have to find a place to stay for the night.