Broken Compass

Though it sure seemed to annoy his dad.

I snicker to myself.

Maybe Nate just did me a favor. I should be on the move again anyway. Normally I’d stay longer, and damn, I like George and his restaurant, but something about this place, the friendships, tonight’s weirdness, pushes me to skip town.

Move on. Keep moving.

It’s the only way.

I start awake in the middle of the night. A distant cry echoes in my ears, and I roll upright, trying to remember where I am, my heart in my throat.

A bad dream, I tell myself, just a bad dream, waiting for the cold sweat to dry on my skin and my stomach to settle.

My window is open, letting in a cool night breeze. I can’t remember opening it. From the faint gray light, it has to be almost dawn.

I reach for my tobacco pouch, but don’t open it. Instead, I grab my journal and turn to my last entry. I swallow hard as I trace the words with my forefinger, as I trace my past. I hate writing on these white pages, pressing my pen in so hard the letters are imprinted in the following pages, grinding my teeth as I put to words the images and emotions, the memories that haunt me.

The fears that plague me.

Shrinks and their bright ideas. I never felt it helped me, keeping a journal. It’s not even as if I write down what happens to me every day. All that comes out is poison from infested wounds, and the acid of anger and fear.

But still I write in it, especially on the mornings when I wake up disoriented and the little black book feels like my only anchor to reality. Or sometimes late at night when I can’t sleep and my mind goes into those crazy obsessive loops that leave me scrambling for my cigarettes and the need to run.

Always this need to run, though there are things you can’t escape that way. I found that out the hard way.

“You know me,” I whisper to the next blank page, gripping the pen so tightly my knuckles turn white. “You know me better than anyone. And what good is that? No matter how much I fucking bleed out on your pages, I’m still me, and you still have no answers.”

I’m still me, goddammit, and not much has changed. Not enough. I need to turn into someone else, someone sane and normal. Someone without my baggage and my default panic setting. Someone who’s free to live and stop running.

Fighting it, I put down the words, cutting my chest open and letting it all flow. I want to believe it will help this time. That this time it will be different. That I will look at what I wrote tomorrow and think, yes, this is it.

This is what you have to do to save yourself. A hidden clue in my recounting of my living nightmares, a key to the lock keeping me prisoner.

But I can’t feel it, not tonight. My head is throbbing, my chest feeling more crushed by the minute.

Giving in, I throw the journal to the nightstand, grab my faithful pouch—my only faithful friend—and head out.

Quietly I open my door and step out. The living room is dark and silent. A small crash from one of the rooms reaches my ears, then nothing.

I stalk past the sofa and dining table and open the balcony door, step out into the cool night air.

Half-closing the balcony door behind me, I walk to the rail and look down at the alley below. The only light comes from Sydney’s apartment, may

be from her kitchen, but it’s faint, and I’m glad for the relative darkness here.

Rolling a joint, I light up and suck in the sweet-smelling smoke. It’s always a risk, but this is the only thing that calms me when a panic attack threatens.

I suck in more smoke, hold it in my lungs until the familiar lethargy seeps through me, relaxing my trembling muscles and calming my heartbeat.

The sky is full of stars, but the air is heavy. I bet the clouds are rolling closer. A storm is on its way.

Lead weighs my limbs. I lean against the rail to finish my joint. I’ll have to find a new dealer before my stash grows too low, I think fuzzily, and smile.

Not sure why I’m smiling. There’s nothing good about my need for weed to get by day to day, or the need to find a dealer. All of this is bound to get me into trouble sooner or later, one way or another, and trouble is the last thing I need. I’m just floating on a cloud of happy chemicals right now, on artificial happiness.

And that’s all I have, so I’ll take it, dammit.

The embers flare red and gold as I suck on the last bit of the joint, my gaze flicking back to Sydney’s balcony. It’s so close I could probably jump over.