Wanderer's End Rough Draft

        One night, after my car had broken down out in the boonies, I took it upon myself to find whatever help I could get.  After I got my trusty flashlight out of the back seat, I began searching for what felt like hours, making my way through a long-winding dirt road before finding civilization: an isolated neighborhood whose street sign read "Wanderer's End Ct".  The houses seemed modest and not painfully gaudy; they were what one would expect of the rural south side's landscape, yet unmistakably in the dark of night with no streetlights Murphy's Law lingered in the cracked door between my subconscious and my common sense. Stopping to rub my hands together in the thirty-degree cold, I fastened the belt of my trench coat and continued, knowing with about as much doubt in me as there was sunlight in that sky something real and formidable was to come my way.

What felt like yet another hour and I came to a fork in the road: a street intersecting Wanderer's End, and two more roads intersecting it. Having shone my light at practically every house with not one response nor having seen any nightly folk on their constitutionals, I pondered the notion of searching these newfound sectors, yet there was still ground to cover where I was.  So I continued, through this metaphorical prison of isolation that I was now rightfully warden of, and there I was at the road's end. At the intersection where another road was placed was a house, one whose words were somewhere between brilliance and the incessant ramblings of a depraved madman.  It sang a song to me, a dirge for how fall it has fallen and how it has forgotten its former glory, sitting on the very edge it was driven to and finding no reason to look back or even reconsider its downward spiral. But! There was also a cry.

        No, not a metaphorical cry - here I'm getting back on track with things. This cry, you or I could relate to without my fancy wordplay and flowery prose. After my crazy voyage into the pure epitome of the boondocks, I had found another living person. A little girl of about eight, with blond hair that curled down to her shoulders wearing a white long-sleeved shirt and jeans, was crying in front of a freshly dug hole. I crouched down to her and lay my hand on her shoulder.

        "Are you alright? Why aren't you in bed?" She wiped the tears from her eyes and looked over to me.

        "I don't live here." I opened my eyes in surprise and put my fingers to my chin to think this through.

        "Well, why don't you go back to your house? It's well past your bedtime, and it's not safe for you to be out at night." She walked away from me to the other side of the yard and stood with her back to me. I propped myself up standing again and waited for her to say something, but she simply stood across from me, unmoving and unmoved.

        "What are you doing here, Scott?" With that, I gasped. How this random child in the middle of nowhere came to know who I am was beyond me.

        "How do you know my name?" I shouted. She gave no answer.

        "Don't be afraid of me, Scott, like everyone else was. They didn't understand me and my mind. I want you to understand my mind..." Before this could get any weirder, I backed away from her and started to turn back onto the intersection. Just as she was out of my sight, it happened: frozen I stood, paralyzed beyond any explanation or reason.  Something pulled my ankles and wrists left and right, something that felt like human hands, which also had grasped my neck in a chokehold, though I was breathing just fine.

        There through my mind flashed images. The first was of myself being locked alone in a child's room, with whom I could only assume was a babysitter sealing me in. Before I could make something of the situation and fully evaluate this occurrence, I was somewhere else. Now I was at a therapy session with a concerned-looking couple. The counselor said to them, "Your child's behavior... it's not-" Lo and behold, another memory had engulfed me. This time it was an elementary school classroom. This was a rude awakening for me, as though the last two weren't quite so hands-on, this was as violent as it could get. The teachers, guidance counselor and principal were all holding me down and muffling my screams. What was I doing? How had I gotten myself into this? Of course, these weren't my experiences and recollections - no sense in me answering those questions if they don't apply to me. All I could do, after all was scream. At least, I tried to scream, but I could only scream in silence.

        "Why?" I shouted. "Why are you doing this to me?" I was no longer in this labyrinth of a personal hell, but back in front of the decrepit house with the girl.

        She kicked at the ground and looked away from me, rubbing at her arm.

        "Come on then! Tell me!"

        "You're just gonna make fun of me if I tell you."

        I groaned and held my palm to my face shortly. "I'm cold and freezing and scared half to death. What's the big idea?"

        She sighed. "I'm nothing but bad memories. That's all I'm good for."

        Somewhat saddened by her self-deprecating, I crouched down and returned my hand to her shoulder. "Listen, kid, we've all got troubles. It's what makes us who we are. Me, I left home without my cell phone and have to find someone who can get me out of here."

        "Why would you do that?"

        I chuckled. "Hey, when you think you'll only be gone for a short time, you make some errors in judgment. Again, it's what makes us who we are. Now get me out of here unless you want another bad memory to add to your list."

        "I can't do that."

        "Why is that?"

        "Because now, I have a good memory, and it's not going anywhere..."

        I scoffed. "Cute, now really, how do I?"

        Everything froze there. No longer was I a free man, living out my life as I pleased. Now, I truly was stuck; beyond stuck, even: trapped.

        Her voice echoed: "You reminded me that it's okay to have bad memories. For this, you get to be my favorite memory. I'll always remember you, Scott..."

        Now I know what she meant when she said she was "nothing but bad memories." She literally was just that: memories.