I Thought I Had Escaped

Looking in the mirror, I am awakening. Have I always needed so much makeup to conceal my eye bags? I am in a haze, and I am off to work, and it is too early in the morning. On my way out, I grab a beige pair of heels out of the mountain of shoes beside my closet. I used to press my face against windows of exquisite stores, dreaming of beautiful items such as these.

I walk wearily to the elevator; already my feet and back are throbbing. As I push my manicured finger against the button proclaiming L and the elevator doors clang shut, my crisis slaps me, hard, shaking my entire body. And my life values kind of just fall apart.

I used to be happy and excited. Alive. I used to dream of this city. What in god's name happened? I am dreadful, and I am dreading my job that years ago I would have killed for. I am alone, in this big place.

Why am I scared?

My purse jumps, flying around in my shaking hand. Recovering, I extract my phone from the slick black side pocket.  “Hello?” My sister still lives in the small town we grew up in. The last time she called was when our father died. She’s crying. I can’t understand her words, she babbles and sniffs. Finally she speaks up just enough for me to gather, “Can you come home? I need help.” Exhaling, I speak as gently as I can. “Yes, but I need to know what’s wrong.”

She has already hung up. And the weight of my promise appears before me; I thought I’d told myself not to ever go back. I hated it there. I thought I had escaped. So then why am I not happy anymore? 

What am I doing?