Tomorrow, I go forever and I’m never coming back.

The words a nonstop mantra, leaving a pounding sensation in my head. Or maybe that’s just the chronic migraines? Either way, these words are the only driving force behind my steps today, pushing me to reach the light at the end of the tunnel. More accurately, the end of Bedford High School’s hallway, filled with spirited students shining sickly sweet smiles. How is it that everyone can be so cheery and happy on Block B days like these? I suppose I’m the only one whose morning started with AP Calculus. I’m sure if the rest of them had to listen to their teachers drone on and on about infinite series and sequences, they’d want to gouge their eyes out too.

Metaphorically, that is.

      I have been told many times my eyes are my best feature. Grey in the winter, blue in the spring, and green in the summer and fall. David likes to say that he could stare into them forever and eventually find the secrets of the universe hidden in their irises. Sometimes I believe him, sometimes I think he’s just trying to get laid. That’s just how he is, I suppose. Flaky. He seems to have a rotation of fading girlfriends who come in and out of his orbit based on his mood.
      David’s the sun, and we’re all just circling him, waiting for our turn to be bestowed his joy and warmth. We’re all just a couple of pathetic girls waiting for our dawn. That’s why I can never look at him for too long; I’m all too aware that, if I do, I’ll be absorbed in his all consuming nature. The all-consuming light that never seems to stop radiating. Never seems to stop burning a hole right through me, even when I’m out of his orbit. Although, he does appear to be genuine enough in his so-called feelings towards me. The ring he’s given me blinding in the summer rays that spill through the hallway windows, promising a lifetime full of weighted  tricks up our sleeves. Breakfast together on the porch in the morning, work at 9 for him, Pilates at noon for me, and one of my new lovers after two, neither of us truly happy in what is sure to be a sham of a marriage.

We’re both frauds. Everyone in this town is.

      Haughty housewives haunt the local boutiques in their handbags and high heels, while brazen businessmen balance checkbooks in their Bedford bungalows, each and every one a complete charlatan. Around here, diamond-encrusted engagement rings get passed down as family heirlooms, binding together generations and generations of unaccomplished women, and somehow, one of those cursed rings has ended up on my finger. I can practically feel it cutting off my circulation, suffocating me with David’s hollow words. It’s a wonder I’m able to still do my schoolwork, what with all the blood rushing to my fingertips from how tight David has his hold on me. Though, the inflamed color of my fingers does pair well with my freshly done red
manicure.
      Still, this loathsome ring alone isn’t what’s deciding my future for me. It’s David, and every other Chatty Cathy in this town who has nothing better to do than busy themselves with the lives of a couple of teenagers. That’s all this town consists of: sale associates, transportation tycoons, and nosey busybodies. Which is why I refuse to tell David my plan, out of fear I’ll be forced to stay. I know he’s catching on little by little, but no matter how much he pokes and prods, he can’t be trusted. “Get married, have kids, and take over the family business.” That’s the plan he’s had since we were children, and it’s certainly not going to change now that I’m clawing at the bars of my enclosure like a rabid animal. He’s the golden boy, after all. Captain of the football team, Mr. Popular, living in a world miles away from me. His life and his future come  first. He’ll just snitch, claiming it’s from a place of concern; the same concern that’s kept my mother locked up only God-knows-where. “It’s because I love you,” he’ll say. The same love we’ve promised to extend towards each other for all of eternity.

Eternity. So final.

Almost as never-ending as this hallway.

      I swear, for such a small school, simply navigating through these halls is like navigating through a maze. No, scratch that. A labyrinth. Every step I take leads me to the same point, like an infinite loop. I feel like I’m stepping a foot deep into pitch-black tar; my pace is sluggish and weak, the school’s cheap fiberglass paneling closing in around me. It seems like thousands of other students are rushing past me, their predetermined futures and destinies apparently
acceptable to them. They’re all just complacent; the small, glowing light at the end of the tunnel only apparent to me, it seems.
      As my skewed vision blurs and the hallway light dims, my father’s favorite words ring in my ears, only further enforcing the pounding in my head.

“Your future don’t look bright.” Oh, great. Migraine.

​

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

      The LED headlights of passing cars are blinding, the bright white orbs obscuring my vision as I speed down the Pennsylvania Turnpike. Where I’m headed, I’m not quite sure. Maybe to Missouri so that the grandeur of the Gateway Arch can instill in me the perseverance I’ll need to continue this journey? Perhaps even to South Dakota, where Mount Rushmore can welcome me with its message of freedom and democracy and I could possibly even earn the respect and wisdom of the Lakota Tribe? Or maybe I need to venture further than that, further than the Midwest, and head towards Wyoming, exploring Yellowstone’s vastness and picturesque landscapes?

Regardless of where I end up, one thing’s for certain: I’m never going back to Bedford.

      Bedford, Pennsylvania, where you either work in retail, struggling to make ends meet, or you are part of the Lancaster family, like David is.
      David Lancaster, the son of the current faces of Lancaster Farming Equipment. For a girl like me, born to an abuser with a penchant for alcohol and a hooker in and out of rehab, being engaged to a Lancaster is a dream come true. A golden ticket out of the Bedford County Housing Authority and straight to a 100-year-old, two-story Victorian up on the hill. But I’m not like my parents. This ridiculous carat-count ring does nothing to assuage me. What’s desirable to the dissipated just tastes like poison to me. Foul and rotten, bitter and pungent, like the wild petunias that pepper the terrain of the Allegheny Mountains that are currently engulfing me. A trace of damp soil and wet leaves fills the air as it comes rushing through my rolled-down window, the passing woodland environment all too familiar.

WELCOME TO PENNSYLVANIA: LET FREEDOM RING

Someone should change that sign. There’s absolutely nothing freeing about the town of Bedford.

​

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

      Rows of pines, oaks, and sycamores that seem to span miles crowd the asphalt as I keep my foot on the accelerator, the same scenery that’s been following me for hours. The occasional, but rare, break in the tree line reveals nothing but another stretch of dark, murky sky. The cars that pass me now are few and far between.

I haven’t seen another car in a while, actually.

      The Turnpike reveals itself before me like one long, black ribbon, unspooling ahead of me faster than I can chase it, the end nowhere in sight. Streetlight after streetlight, mile marker after mile marker, each one identical to the last. The forest I’ve known my whole life presses in on either side of me, but tonight it feels…unfamiliar, like it’s turned against me, conspiring to confuse me. Even the overhead signs are beginning to blur together, the reflective white letters
on the horrid green metal hazy in my eyes.
      I look at my beat-up old car’s analog clock. It’s 1:59 in the morning. It’s been 1:59 for hours. Stupid thing must be broken. I grip the steering wheel, my knuckles white, my engagement ring sure to leave a mark from how tightly I’m squeezing the wheel. My eyes are stinging from staring too long at the same pattern of white dashes and yellow lines. This doesn’t feel like the Turnpike at all. The trees around me knit themselves together into one endless wall, the edge of the forest undistinguishable.
      The woods are almost mocking me. No matter how fast I drive or how quickly I turn, the road beneath my tires seems to lengthen with every screech of rubber against black tar pavement. Each curve delivers me right back to the same dark corridor, as though the forest has learned a new trick: to bend the world into an eternal loop and keep me driving inside.

My home has betrayed me; the Allegheny Mountains my captor now.

​

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Fuck this.
I slam on my brakes, hard, before veering onto the narrow shoulder, gravel spitting under the tires until the car jerks to a stop. Still 1:59 AM. I’ve been driving for hours; I know that for a fact, and yet there is still no end. This is bullshit. For a moment, I just sit there, my stalled engine humming, trying to make sense of the situation before me. I keep my hands gripped tight on the steering wheel, my foot rapidly tapping against the floor of my car. The headlights are stabbing straight into the trees, the very trees that seem to be testing me now. Try me. Push me. Do it.

      I know this road. I know this road. I’ve driven it enough times to know exactly where it should lead, exactly how long it should take, and exactly what fucking town is up next. And yet, nothing. Now here I am, stuck between the same trees, the same mile markers, staring at the same stretch of asphalt as if the world has folded in on itself and the Pennsylvania Turnpike has become one massive strip. I need to collect myself. I just need a fucking second to think.
      I yank the car door open, the smell of rotting wood and decaying flowers hitting my face hard enough to make my eyes water.

Jesus…what’s that god-awful smell?

The car’s warmth spills out as I look into the woods, blinking into the darkness that surrounds me, trying to find where the stench is coming from. At first, it looks like shadows are swaying in the branches, but the longer I stare, the more the shapes in the trees sharpen into something grotesque. 

…There are bodies hanging from the trees.

      Like delicious fruit, crisp and ripe, hundreds of bodies dangle from the branches; some in pearly, white wedding dresses, others in freshly ironed uniforms, the rest naked and exposed. I recognize each and every one of them. My mother, my grandmother, my neighbors, my friends. Women who’ve loved and lost before me, destined to spend their precious lives as mere ladies of the house. But among them, one figure twists sharper than the rest, striking me harder than any nightmare could. The one person who deserved to escape Bedford more than anyone else.
      My best friend, raped last June and dead by July, hangs naked from a rotting sycamore tree. Her pink nail polish is chipped, her fingers raw and bloody from scratching at his face. Hot, heavy tears prickle in the corners of my eyes, but they do not dare to fall. I fear my sorrow will only seem minuscule in comparison to the suffering that has now surrounded me. Instead, the taste of freshly cut petunias fills my mouth, bitter and toxic, and it feels as though the wildflower is slowly clogging my lungs as I choke on my wasted tears. My stomach lurches, the petunias growing higher from the back of my throat, and, before I know it, my knees are giving out beneath me. I stagger backward, sick to my stomach and desperate to escape the sight of the hanging bodies, but every direction feels barricaded by shadows and trees that seem to press closer to me. The emptiness of the road terrifies me, black and endless, because even in its vastness, there is no escape. I feel no freedom, only the suffocating grip of a place that refuses to release me, determined to hang me by the plaits in my hair.

You can’t keep me here. I am leaving.

      As panic fills my senses, a flash of white light breaks through the dark road ahead. Headlights. An engine roars, growing louder, closer, bearing down on me faster than I can move. The blinding glare swallows me whole, a rush of rubber and metal colliding with my body before everything around me goes silent.

No more hanging bodies, no more rotting trees, no more blurred signs. Nothing.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

      The silence stretches, thick and endless, until it splinters into the shrill beeping of my alarm clock. My tired eyes snap open, my body sore and stiff, and I’m in bed. David is snoring lightly beside me, his arms clasped around my waist like a cage, the weight of my wedding ring suddenly unbearably heavy on my finger. The room smells of petunias and cologne, not rot. No trees, no bodies, no road. Just him. Just Bedford. Fucking Bedford. It’s Monday morning again.

“Tomorrow, I go forever and I’m never coming back,” I whisper to the ceiling.

I mean it this time. Really, I do.

            …Well, after I drop the kids off at school, of course. And after I pick up David’s dry cleaning. He’s got a big meeting Tuesday, and he’s insisted on wearing his grey pinstriped suit, though I think it makes him look a little snobby. But after that, I really am leaving. I swear.