Exodus

by Precipitate8

I have to leave town. Being unhappy is one thing…fear is a motor. It’s not the prospect of death that frightens me; this comes off as much worse. Like long term suffering.

I’d stayed drunk for over forty-eight hours. Not one of those complacent buzzes people try to maintain for sociable evenings, but an image-shredding, memory-skipping, death-defying debauch in the true spirit of self-hating enlightenment. I had lost several dollars at penny ante poker, driven to pick up virus-infested, pirated software, and discussed the way of the world with those who have seen it. One morning I found myself on a golf course, calling opponents mother’s whores, and calling any ball that didn’t hit a house a great shot. Backing the golf cart in full reverse to find a ball proved to turn the day for the worse as I ran over the classically styled wooden fence, thus driving the cart down the face of the embankment. We immediately recovered the cart, but not before the golf nazi rangers were on to us, where I tried telling my companions,

“Look, you don’t know me…you were trying to pick up a fourth and you had no idea this maniac was going to insist on driving the cart. Tell’em they’re lucky you don’t sue the goddamn place for they’re fucked up dangerous golf trails.”

I at least convinced them to let me do all the talking. I haven’t heard anything about it to this day, and they even let us finish our game. Although the beer girls did approach us right after (you know…the girls that drive around golf courses selling beer to the golfers), “Say, you aren’t the people that destroyed the fence over there…?”

“God, no, I have no idea what animals committed such a travesty, but I could use a couple of beers…you do sell beer, right?”

“Of course, but…well, the ranger told us not to serve whoever hit the fence…”

“So that’ll be two bud lights.”

And with that cheerful ‘goto’ smile, “Ok, that’ll be three dollars…”

I next found myself in the midst of a tremendous crying jag at an ex-girlfriend’s place…how come you don’t love me…how come you won’t be with me…I thought we were special…If I was with you I wouldn’t be so unhappy…some really ugly stuff. After a few trips of drunk driving between her place and mine, smashing my room to bits, and a pack of cigarettes, I passed out in her bed. I awoke just in time to call in sick for work and feel my swollen fist from punching all the garbage cans in her front yard. I believe I slept a significant part of the day until I found myself home, alone, and dreadfully sober. I went to bed early, giving the finger to the god of hangovers, hoping I would never wake up from this artifact of dreamless sleep.

Awaken I did. I remember showering for work and then my roommates trying to convince me that I had just had an epileptic seizure and was in no condition to go to work. Of course I wouldn’t listen to them, I come out of a seizure with a subroutine locked in my head: first, get out of the ambulance so you don’t have to pay for it; second, get to work so you don’t get into trouble.

I got in my car only to have another seizure in the seat, and while in this narcoleptic state, I idled forward only to be stopped by a palm tree. If only the police could have saved me…

Wait…the police did save me…they wrote a police report and everything saying so. Luckily, my best friend lives near the “crash site” and parked my car and followed me to the hospital, where my ex-girlfriend eventually showed up. It’s so rare I get them both at the same place at the same time.

The ex says, “I think he needs something for the pain.” And they gave me percocets. And you wonder what I saw in her.

This is the conclusion I have come to: someone wants me gone. I haven’t even thought about who…but it’s probably someone I know. Even though the fear is good enough reason to leave, I’ve wanted out anyways. My friends are embarrassed and frightened of my wrecklessness. My love is only there for disaster. At this rate, my body can live with disaster for another couple of weeks, tops. The real fear, the real response to flee, comes from the mind. They’re making me crazy. I think I hear colors of emotion behind my back. I think I’m in danger. They don’t want to kill me…I’m telling you…it’s much worse.

Wish me luck.