I moved out of state so I wouldn’t see you again. I jammed everything I owned into my hatchback and drove 200 miles in silence. For some reason, I thought that would be far enough, but I was wrong. I see you watching me on my new job. You think you’re hiding, but I can feel your eyes on the back of my neck. I can hear your voice playing over the in-store speakers. You always talk to me through the radio. I know your tricks, and I don’t fall for them anymore. I don’t listen. I don’t have to listen. That’s what I yelled before walking out of my job at the drug store. I tore my nametag from my shirt and dropped it in the parking lot as I left.
I don’t need to work if I don’t have any bills. I started camping in the woods off the interstate. No one can charge me to live here. I can leave my car on the side of the road and hike out into the trees. I walk for thirty minutes before I set up camp. That’s far enough away not to be noticed by the police.
Even that far back in the woods, I can still hear the rush of the traffic, but I pretend it’s the sound of a rushing stream. It is dark out here, and I know you can’t find me. There is no radio. There are no posters of you. No cardboard cutouts for people to pose with. I am alone with my thoughts. I am away from you.
