On the Cusp of Twenty-One

The leaves had just begun to change, slowly crusting over into the many different shades of red and orange. Their fall to the ground seemingly inevitable, where they would then remain until the air grew cold and they succumbed to an onslaught of snow.

I sit in the heart of it all, making a seat out of some fallen tree, bundled in my warmest sweater, my satchel at my feet. Here I am, I think to myself, on the cusp of twenty-one, not quite old, but not quite young. The thought of the leaves saddened me. Some feeling I was not quite familiar with tugged at me, threatening to unravel me like a loose string on an intricately knit blanket. The idea that each new leaf that sprouts has a predetermined death gnaws at me. Is my death predetermined?

“Fuck,” I whisper to my surroundings as the cold begins to creep down my neck, being that my only audience is a couple of squirrels woefully chasing one another, I don’t feel the need to censor.

I tug a gold laced flask out of my satchel, kicking myself for not getting a new one, yet. This one leaks, if tilted just the right way, it’s lid worn from all the use. Just like me, I think, bitterly as I twist open the lid. The familiar smell of cheap whiskey stings my nose as I take a sip. It burns my throat, making me long for the smooth finish of my stepfathers' top-shelf bourbon, but hey, I’m on a budget. It doesn’t really matter what’s in my flask, as long as it warms my belly and clouds my thoughts.

I take another long swig, before screwing the cap back on and putting it away, for now. A lone squirrel perches itself on the trunk I am sitting on, staring at me. Maybe it’s after the small metal acorn that rests on the base of my neck. Maybe it’s come to laugh at me, I wouldn’t blame it. Whatever it’s here for, I hate it. Its black, beady eyes stare at me with a blank expression.

I pull my flask out again, “what, did you want some?” I ask the squirrel, flinging the flask in its direction.

The clang of the flask hitting the tree startles the squirrel away, thank God. I pick the flask back up, and notice it has begun to leak a little. Shrugging, I toss back what’s left in it and throw it into my bag carelessly. Streams of light pour in through the trees, a brilliant shade of orange. I pull out my phone to check the time and to see if anyone has tried to reach me. The clock reads 6:27 PM, no notifications, no service, though, either.

Someday, I think, recalling the days' events. The sun had risen, I had woken up next to my boyfriend, we were on Thanksgiving break. I hadn’t wanted to go home, not that I had anyone else to go home to. So, I rented a cabin nestled somewhere in the mountains and took off, lugging Zac, my boyfriend, along for the ride. After a few hours of silent board games, something in me shifted. It felt like I was suddenly living inside of someone else’s skin and I couldn’t claw my way out. So, I filled my flask, grabbed my satchel and I left. I hadn’t told Zac that I was leaving. I waited for him to get up to use the bathroom, before slipping out the back door without a sound. I’d just needed to think. Except, I haven’t done much thinking. I’d done some drinking. Because what was the point in thinking, anymore? What was the point in anything? As I stood to head back to the timber cabin, I felt the whiskey slosh around inside me, the feeling made me laugh. My feet felt a little wobbly beneath me, but I suppose that’s what I get for thinking my petite frame could handle almost an entire flask of straight whiskey on an empty stomach. I resolved that I would make some food when I got home.

The walk back was short. I had only just begun to struggle with the lock when the door was flung open. Zac stands in the doorway, anger contorts his face. His shoulder-length, ashy colored hair was raked up into a bun, giving me a clear view of his eyes. They darkened upon seeing me, like clouds prepping for a storm. I raise an eyebrow up at him. He takes the cue and side steps out of the way, giving me room to enter.

“I was wondering where the whiskey had gone,” Zac says in a condescending tone, “now I know.”

“I just needed some fresh air. It was getting a little stuffy in here. You, me, and scrabble,” I reply, stumbling slightly, as I struggle to take off my boots.

“Here, sit down, I’ll help you,” he says, despite his anger.

He hastily pulls out a chair and motions for me to sit. The wood feels hard against my bottom, as Zac unties my shoes and places them by the fire to dry. I wiggle my toes to warm them from the frigid outdoors.

An awkward tension clings to the air. I can tell Zac is pissed. I guess I would be pissed if he had disappeared all day and came back drunk. But, I’d had my reasons.

“This is bullshit,” Zac huffs, startling me with his outburst.

Rising slowly, I go over to him where he stands by the brick fireplace, “what’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong! You begged me to come out here with you. You just couldn't stand to be around anyone, so you dragged me out here, with no service, no heat, and then you disappear all day to get drunk in the woods!” he screams, spit spewing from his mouth in all directions.

“I..I jusss need..needed to be..” I try to argue back, to form a coherent response, but my words slur together one after the other.

“God, you know, I don’t get you. You’re always claiming to be so alone but, look around you: you’ve made yourself that way, ” Zac says, startling me with the accurateness of his words.

He’s right. The truth is, I just don’t like many people. I stopped talking to my family when I moved away for school, and everyone who attempted to befriend me was thwarted away by disdainful sarcasm. But I knew that I couldn’t talk to Zac about it, he just wouldn't understand. Not even my family can.

“It’s just that nothing makes sense,” I whisper, my eyes focused on the brick pattern of the fireplace, on the sharpness of the corners.

“What doesn't’?” There was a sudden softness to his voice.

I think of all the things that I could say to him: 'The world doesn’t make sense. The way we live doesn’t make sense. Is this all there is, emptiness? Humanity is fucked up, Zac.' But, I don’t say any of it.

“Maybe I don’t want to talk to you,” I muse, watching the flames roar within their contained space, “maybe I don’t want anything to do with you.”

Hurt flashes over his face, but is quickly replaced with rage. Zac has always had anger issues. I knew just the right buttons to push to make him lose his level-headed exterior.

His face reddens as he clenches and unclenches his fist, trying to calm down. But, it’s too late. The damage is done.

“Fine, you don’t want anything to do with me? Fine! Then just go back out there and don’t bother coming back!” He shouts, thrashing around his arms.

I step into the way of Zac’s hand, which was flying around, itching for something to hit. The back of his hand collides into my face, the force of the slap too much for my teetering balance. I can feel myself falling. I can hear the air passing around me... I can feel my head smack against the corner of the fireplace in just the right place. I even feel my head begin to spew blood, as if I have sprung a leak. As if the flask and I were now the same: broken, used, leaking.

But then... I feel nothing.