Flee

    The speed limit is somewhere around fifty-five—I’m going at least eighty. As the mountains fly through my peripherals in streaks of red, brown, and burnt-orange, my breath catches, and I find that I can’t bring myself to step on the brake. Cool autumn air blasts through the open windows, whipping my hair around my ears and eyes. I glance to the left at the river that runs alongside the road, taking hazardously long to stare as the afternoon light skips across its surface.

    What a day to be alive, I tell myself, and for a brief moment I feel good. But the feeling doesn’t last, because at the end of the day, it doesn’t really matter how fast I’m driving or how beautiful a day it is; there’s a weight on my shoulders I can’t escape. It presses down on my back, bending my shoulders and curving my spine until I can barely see over the steering wheel. I attempt to straighten, to lose myself in the beauty of the canyon. But nothing weighs heavier than regret.

    Regret? I ask myself. Why? You did what you had to do.

    “Then why do I feel like this?” I say aloud. “People are supposed to feel good when they’ve done the right thing.” So why do I feel like I’ve just made a massive mistake?

    I squint at a sign that appears down the road: “Scenic Route.” My eyes flicker between the road ahead and the road that winds off into the trees. With no time to decide, I inhale sharply, then slam on the breaks and flick the blinker on. I swerve just in time to make the turn.

    If the goal is to lose myself, I plan on doing it thoroughly.