I was an adult who disappeared. Why would anyone care? My mother probably lights a candle every month, marking the date I left and wishing me well wherever I am. Hoping my life is better now. She has no idea. I am in hell.
For a bet I once learned the Eskimo words for snow. I had to stand up by the bar in a packed pub – The Angel, my local – and battle my complete inability to speak in public. I stood there, my face heating up to nuclear proportions, stuttering my first words out. My speech echoed in an odd manner around my head, my words seemed to come too rapid for anyone to understand, but I finished to rapturous applause and a great big smoochy kiss from Luke. To this day, I’ve not forgotten those words. There are fifteen proper ones, with hundreds of pronunciations. Today I am natquik - drifting snow. My soul is drifting along. I have one precious week until he shows up again. One week of
freedom on my prison island.