The Leaving Day

Tick, tick.

How the hell do I fit my entire life into just one suitcase? I stare at the only suitcase I own. Tears prick at my eyes in frustration. I let the armful of kitchenware I had gathered drop uselessly onto the bed beside the case. None of it is going to fit.

West. I’m going west. Where the sun shines. Where my new life will begin.

Leaving home isn’t unique. Many pre-university teens do it—tired of isolation, eager for freedom, searching for themselves.

Me too.

It’s kind of exciting.

Despite everything…

So I’m not the first person to ever do this – pack my entire life into a suitcase, that is.

I can get kitchenware out west. I add them to my ‘discard pile’. Then I dig into the suitcase and pull out several books – favourites, but not rare. I can get books there, too. Now, discarded.

Tick, tick.

That blasted, noisy clock. My eyes find it involuntarily.

18.23.

My heart begins to pound.

Is it that time already?

Bile rises in my throat.

I run to the wardrobe. It’s filled with clothing from charity stores, such is the tight state of my allowance. Pressed and hung in colour order. Mandated.

I spread my arms wide and lift the clothes off the rail as one. Then I throw them into the suitcase.

It feels strange not to fold them.

Rebellious.

Back at the wardrobe, I spy the shoes neatly lined up. Worn, each pair in its right place. Out west, my shoes won’t need to be lined up. They’ll be strewn on the floor, a hazard in the night – my hazard.

I smile at the thought.

In the corner of the wardrobe, I see him. Teddy. I’m told it’s stupid for a woman to still keep her teddy bear. But he’s mine. He had been there for every important moment in my childhood. Happy times.

Before times…

His fur is no longer fluffy, and his arms had once been resewn back on by mum. But I love him. And I want him there for my new life.

Like, both of us will now be free of the wardrobe. Finally.

I grab him and carry him over to the suitcase like the precious thing he is.

Tick, tick.

No, no, no.

He’s coming.

He’ll pull into the driveway, expecting me to be waiting for him with a smile. Instead, I am surrounded by a mess. And a half-packed suitcase.

I breathe in rapid, shallow breaths.

Move! Now!

I push down on the pile of clothes, willing it all to fit. But there is no way it’ll all fit.

Sweat beads at my brow.

And then I see it.

The stitching on my pale-yellow dress, where I mended it last spring. A tear, from when I had fallen into a rose bush.

No, not fallen.

Pushed…

Maybe it wasn’t his fault. Maybe he’d had a rough day. I had left the trimmings on the driveway. He had to park on the curb. I hadn't expected him home early.

But the fall, no… push, had left numerous scratches, one deep enough to scar. Right where this tear had been.

Perhaps I’ll leave this one behind…

I pull the dress from the suitcase and toss it on the bed.

A pause… and then I pull out the next… and the next… discarding them. A blood-stained, floral dress (dinner wasn’t ready on time), a pink blouse with a repaired tear (I had taken too long at the supermarket), black pants I had never worn (they made me look fat, apparently).

I stop at the cotton pyjamas. Nothing special – just affordable. But I remember when we had cuddled on the couch in them, enjoying a movie and a bowl of freshly popped popcorn. He had been sweet. Like before.

I smile as I feel the soft fabric.

We could have more times like that…

Perhaps if I listen more…

Or I could just wait out this tough period… be patient… it will get better…

Or if I just try harder…

A splotch of blood spreads across the back of my hand. I lift my hand reflexively to my lip. My right eye aches where an ugly bruise is blooming.

I always have a whiskey waiting for him when he arrives home. He needs it after such a tough day of work.

How hard is it to have it ready, woman? he’d said tonight. How useless are you?

But there was none left. I hadn’t realised until I went to pour it. He must have emptied the bottle the night before, as I waited dutifully for him in bed. He hadn’t mentioned that he’d finished it when he’d finally come upstairs. He had just grunted and climbed on top of me.

I’m not blaming him, of course. I should have checked. But if he had told me that, it would have been helpful.

But I definitely should not have said that.

I should have stayed quiet.

The hit was hard. The second was worse. And as I lay sprawled on the kitchen floor, he’d just grunted that he’d go to the store himself.

Twenty minutes away…

Tick, tick.

He’ll be back soon.

My husband will be back.

But… today is THE day.

I grab the pyjamas from the suitcase and throw them on the floor.

A pause…

Then I upend the entire contents on the floor. Every piece represents either horrific or sweet memories. I can afford neither right now.

I stare at the photo album that was upended with the clothes. Happy memories. Sweet memories. Dangerous memories.

Because they might make me return with hopeful love in my eyes. Worse – they might make me stay.

Tick, tick.

The suitcase lies empty on the bed.

So, I put Teddy in.

Still very empty.

I collect a photo frame from the top drawer of my bedside table. I gaze at the girl in the photo. I barely recognise her. Grinning happily, her cheeks flushed with health. When had I no longer resembled that girl?

I put the frame in the suitcase.

Tick, tick.

A deep stuttered breath.

A racing pulse.

I tell myself… I’m going to be okay.

With renewed strength, I shut the suitcase and zip it.

How does one fit their whole life in one suitcase?

Easy.

If it’s a life you no longer want.

Or a life you are running from…

I run down the stairs with my near-empty suitcase, a small wad of cash in my pocket. I had saved a few dollars each week for a year. It’s not much. Enough to get a bus west and a fortnight at a motel. Hopefully, enough to get me through until my new life starts.

A life that I’ll want to carry with me in my suitcase.

Better yet, a life that won’t need a suitcase.

I pause at the house’s entrance and carefully peer out the window. No car in the driveway. Not yet.

I burst through the door, letting it slam behind me, and half-run, half-walk to the end of the street. It’s only when I turn the corner that I finally feel like I have left the house.

Two blocks to go.

I look at my watch. Six minutes until the bus going west arrives.

I’d memorised the timetable. Just in case.

Tick, tick.

Two blocks, six minutes, one bus going west.

And then my one suitcase and I will be gone.