Situation

Chapter 36: Wilderness Lodge

          "Kanda, where are we going?" I whine, getting restless from being in the small Ford Focus for over three hours. He glances over at me, amusement sparkling in his dark eyes, "It's only about another hour, maybe less."

I woke up at around nine this morning to an empty bed and a suitcase at the end of the bed, half-full with clothes. Long story short, Kanda told me to pack enough clothes for a today through Friday and a little extra, plus swimwear and that Fou would take care of Ice. Personally, I had no clue what we were doing, let alone where we would go swimming, but I did as he said, and in about two hours, my stomach was full and we were in this black Focus. Originally, I thought Kanda didn't have his license, but guess what? Yep, he can legally drive, though I wish that he would tell me what we were doing.

I complain, "We've been driving for hours!

"Correction," he says, eyes back on the road, "I've been driving for hours. You, on the other hand, can't stay still. Don't you have an iPod?"

I nod, "Yeah, but I didn't think you would want to listen to it. My ear buds finally broke after five years, and all I have is a jack."

"Then, use it. I can just tune it out," he insists, and I happily reach into the backseat, grabbing my bag and putting it on my lap. After unzipping the top, I rummage around until I find the cord and electronic device, and the bag goes back behind me as I plug the iPod into the input on the stereo. Flipping though the songs, I ask, "What kind of music do you like?"

"It doesn't matter, just play what you like," he tells me, not glancing away from the windshield. Shrugging, I set it on the "My Favorites" playlist, the first song coming up "Play Dead" by The Birthday Massacre. Quietly, as to keep Kanda from hearing me, I sing along to the somewhat creepy music, "Thinking hurts and thoughts don't rhyme to those of us who've never tried to find a face behind our lipstick smiles. And as our pretty faces die, our broken hearts will wonder why the make-up just won't hide the scars of time."

As I continue to mumble the words, I watch out the window, my breath on the window fogging the glass and the dreary clouds looming ominously over the forests around us. Even though autumn is by far my favorite season, winter is beautiful in my eyes, even if it was cold and seemingly gloomy. Maybe it's because I have connection to it, the snow falling in the long, freezing nights and killing everything it can clutch in its unforgiving grasp like the tears running over my scarred, dead heart buried in my warm yet hollow chest, beating only for the ones around it. So why is it that I can stare in awe at that same, pure, careless snow and see the beauty, but can only crack the mirror when gazing at my own reflection? Where is the corruption? Is it my broken eyes, or is it that nature can be the most striking thing while still prowling for its next kill?

Or maybe it's Kanda and his twisted sense of beauty being me. I would never consider myself beautiful for so many reasons, like the scars that cover my body, the pale, vulgar, repulsive things that will forever mark me as weak and fragile. Not only are they reminders of my past, but sometimes I can't even make eye contact with my boyfriend when we're intimate. It doesn't bother me that I'm no longer a virgin, but it was the last sense of purity I had in me, and it's gone now, even if I was to the person I love and father of my baby.

No, my virginity was long gone, but when I think about it, it was the least I could do to tell Kanda how much I loved him and how grateful I am that he saved me, even if there are times that I regret it. I continue to gaze at the passing trees, naked as they reach towards the dark sky with their gnarled arms vulnerable to lightning and fire, and the sky is so menacingly gray, the color of ashes, even though it was only one in the afternoon. It was obvious that it would burst soon, its cloudy eyes bubbling over with fat, cold tears, and it was only a few minutes before it did, the water beginning to run down the windows. Over my music, now playing "45" by Shinedown, I could hear the faint squeak of the window wipers, announcing that it was really raining, not my imagination.