• Warning: A few uses of "impolite language".

    Blue Suitcase


    Emilee was a lot like the weather. She was highly unpredictable and could often be used as a scapegoat whenever I was having a bad day. You wouldn't even want me to get started on her moods. However despite her numerous faults, I had somehow allowed myself to become her friend and confidant. She would complain to me about everything, her favored subjects of inane passive aggressiveness being her parents and her boyfriend. We would spend countless Friday nights up in her room talking about whatever was going on in our pathetically uneventful lives. The conversations were usually a one way street with Emilee's tendency to rant, but I really didn't have a problem with it. I didn't really have much to add to the conversation anyways and although I would hardly ever show it, the girl's anecdotes often amused me.

    "I'm sick of this place." Emilee said, breaking our comfortable silence on one such Friday night.

    This was her third favorite topic of bitching. It was a common complaint, one that always managed to sneak into most of our conversations. We could have been talking about the rising cost of postage stamps and Emilee would be able to somehow throw that into the mix. It was her mantra, a simple song that she loved to sing in hopes of getting a rise out of me.

    It used to, too. The first dozen times or so I would seek to end this conversation before it could reach a realm I wasn't comfortable with, realms that involved Emilee doing something rash, something that would inevitably cause harm. Nothing too serious, certainly not suicide. She was too flippant for something like that. Despite that, I still worried. However, as time went on I started to realize that Emilee treated life a lot like kids treated Halloween. She'd show up at your door, holding out her hand looking for it to be filled. She would take all she could get, then she'd leave. You'd be lucky if you could get a quick thank you before she ran off to her next source of temporary validation.

    "What about Jack?" I asked as I let my arm dangle out her bedroom window.

    "What aboutJack?" She shoots back.

    "You sick of him too?"

    This would always get her to shut up, if only for a moment. I don't even bother looking at her; not exactly in the mood to see her pissy face. Instead I leaned my head against the window pane, absentmindedly scratching at the paint. After a few moments, I brought my hand up to inspect the flecks stuck underneath, deep red like broken blood cells. Those were going to bug me. As I started to pick the bothersome chips from my nails, I wondered when Emilee would grow tired of this silence and make her next move. In a perfect universe she'd drop the subject all together and we would then continue on with our regularly scheduled Friday evening in which we'd have a thrilling time doing absolutely nothing. Of course a life with Emilee Ryder in it could never be that simple. Knowing this regrettable fact, I was left to wait with not so bated breath.

    The agonizing drawn out silence was finally broken with an exasperated sigh and the creak of aging bedsprings. Rolling head to face Emilee, I watched as the girl made a line for her closet. Closing my eyes, I let out a sigh of my own. It had officially begun. A few seconds later, Emilee turned to face me again, this time carrying a suitcase. The suitcase, blue and worn around the edges, had seen the beginning of many journeys, always serving as the punctuation to Emilee's point. However, despite all the new beginnings I don't think the suitcase ever saw any ends. I'd even be willing to bet Emilee always quit after the prologue once she lost interest in making a scene. Throwing the suitcase on her bed, Emilee started to pack.

    I knew I was expected to say something at this point; it was just the natural order of things. This wasn't our first read-through of the script after all; we'd been through this same bullshit countless times. I would ask her to stay or point out something about our lives that made them worth living. It didn't really matter how I said it, as long as the words were there. However, no matter how many times the two of us had been through this, I just couldn't bring myself to do my part in our play, not then. I was tired of rehearsing, waiting for the day that Emilee would shut up and actually do something about her discontent.

    Emilee let out a sudden muffled curse and brought her finger to her mouth to suck on it. She mumbled something about a damn zipper as she nursed the injured digit before returning to her task. A few more futile pulls of the zipper later, Emilee sighed and reopened the thing. She figured she would have to pack lighter. Throwing a few shirts back at her dresser, the girl looked up at me with narrowed eyes.

    "God, don't go all silent on me now. I'm not in the mood."

    I shrugged.

    "Send me a postcard."

    The look Emilee gave me was all wide eyes and surprise. She wasn't expecting me to break the script, not when we were just getting good at it. The look quickly passed and she slipped back behind the mask of indifference she had crafted oh so carefully throughout the years. Making one more attempt at the zipper, Emilee gave a grim smile of satisfaction as it closed. Turning, she placed the suitcase by the door. Suddenly she paused, hand resting on the suitcase's handle.

    This is the first time the two of us had gotten that far, so naturally I was on the edge of my seat. A moment passed and this time my breath really was bated. For the first time, I had forced her to make her own decision instead of indulging her in what she thought she needed to hear. After a shuddering sigh, Emilee looked over her shoulder, directly into my eyes.

    "You know," Emilee started, hesitant, "you could always come with me." The girl smiled then, a small twitch of the lips that quivered with uncertainty. Perhaps one might have called the smile heartbreaking. However, sometimes I wondered if my own indifference had long since snuffed out any form of sympathy when it came to our long drawn out friendship. And yet, the more I looked at her, hand resting on her suitcase as if it were the only thing anchoring her to this reality, I started to feel something. She looked so frail in that moment and I couldn't help but wonder what had caused her to fall so far from what she had been when we first met.

    It was then I realized that all this time, perhaps I wasn't the only one. It had never occurred to me that she would do these things just to get me to actually say anything. Maybe she didn't need a verbal punching bag, but someone who would actually talk back. Standing up, I walked over to Emilee and placed my own hand on the handle of the suitcase, giving the girl's hand a small reassuring squeeze.

    "Or we could just save all that gas money and stay here." I offered, my own small smile starting to take form. Emilee looked at me, shocked once more by my sudden change in the game. However, the shock faded quickly and she put on a look of mock consideration, weighing possibilities that she's already come to a conclusion on.

    "I guess I could use that money saved and buy that that adorable handbag I've been eyeing for a while." Emilee's smile grew, lighting up her face in a way that I hadn't seen for a while. I let out a small chuckle and threw the blue suitcase back towards the girl's closet. We could unpack later; I knew Emilee was dying to tell me about that overpriced bag.