Page 20 of Her Sloth

Usually, I am able to pretend I belong in this world. Right now, I can’t. I want to vomit all over it.

Why am I even here? I ask myself.

I could rent every other hotel in the city.

I could just tell everyone to fuck off and go live somewhere off-grid where no one recognizes me.

And right this moment as I lie in this room, I understand my sister more and more.

Caged lioness. Exhibit A. Bred in captivity. Transferred to a different zoo. Kept in line by responsibilities and expectations.

I should sleep. But I am too awake to find rest. Instead I get up, slip on my sunglasses and cap, change into a hoodie and pull the hood over the cap so no one recognizes me.

I haven’t checked the Mustang out of the impound lot yet; my manager should have done so, but he won’t do anything right now.

I take the private elevators downstairs and ask the concierge to be let out via the service entrance because I can already see paps lingering outside.

I get out on 58th Street; from there, I walk to Park Avenue. I walk all the way Downtown. Walking past the scrapers and the suits, past the Whitney-Morgan Bank building without a single glance at it.

They will be freaking out because I didn’t show up to the meeting. But right now, I feel so much of nothing that I can’t even bring myself to care about all the people.

I walk.

And walk.

Over the Brooklyn Bridge with the annoying tourists before I get down the stairs into Brooklyn, past the red-brick houses and brownstones, until the area gets more industrial. I realize where my mindless walking brought me when I’m standing in front of a closed-off area with green construction fences around.

The same place where everything started last night.

I climb over the fence.

Walk over sand and gravel through piles of demolition remnants until I reach the water.

I sit on a low wall, swing my legs to the waterside, remove my hood, and let my legs dangle as I look over at the Statue of Liberty.

Liberty.

A word that gives me goosebumps. Not of the good kind.

Because to a caged animal like me, freedom means nothing. It’s this dream others talk about that would require me to leave everything behind, to escape a world I can’t escape and be entirely on my own.

So I appease and pretend, and escape into the small tastes of life I have when recklessly speeding along a highway, with a part of me hoping someone pulls out so I can finally be done with it.

A tear fights its way over my cheek.

Because I admire my sister for her strength in doing what she did.

“We could’ve run away together,” I tell her, glancing up at the blue sky. “But I left and never looked back. Thinking you’d be fine. Father’s favorite. Guess you were just as good as me in pretending.”

More tears come, and I throw my sunglasses away as I wipe away the tears.

But they won’t stop.

Sobs follow.

I suck in my lips, but it’s too late.

I feel too much.