I read the words in my mind. And the figure is there in the room with me. As if his hand is on my shoulder. He means well for me; he wants to support me, but his presence is terrifying. I don’t move or make a sound. My heartbeat pounds in my ears and my ragged breath fills my head as I struggle to listen.

Even before a word is on my tongue…

Why do you run, child? Why do you hide? he asks me. I don’t want what I wanted; I don’t want what I chose, I tell him.

The words coming out of our mouths, of my mouth, start to slur together into one soft buzz. Can we not talk, or can I not hear? Then those questions disappear altogether, and I feel something hard under my chin. The bar top. I put my head down and watch through my one winking eye the best friend’s jaunty movements. He lurches forward and leans heavily on the bar. He moves like in a viewfinder, stopping in one pose and starting in another. I realize he’s not in an old-timey movie. As hard as I try to hold them open, my eyes are heavy and blinking.

Black. So quiet you can hear the still.

To the heartache of those who love me, against their advice, against all odds, oblivious or indifferent to signs of turning back or impending obstacles, I skip gayly, stagger blindly, or even sometimes scratch and crawl with spiteful determination down this path that others disdainfully refer to as “the hard way.”