He spent most of his time driving around. It was aimless really, but he figured that’s what life was, and driving was better than sitting.
“Where have you been?” his parents would ask.
“Nowhere.” was always his response.
This angered them tremendously. But what was the proper answer? He truly was going nowhere, too apathetic to do anything but follow the same empty streets for endless hours.
“Where am I supposed to go?” he countered one night. Silence fell with the weight of a train. They had no answers. “No, really,” he began to rant, “where the **** am I supposed to go? The church? The bar? The playground?” He didn’t realize he had started yelling, angrily mocking the small town, population: 2,036.
“Son,” his dad chimed in, “I know there’s not much for you around here-” the boy cut him off by turning around and calmly walking towards the door, stopping the fighting as soon as it had started. It wasn’t worth it.
He stepped out into the dark, the warm air was inviting. In the ignition the keys turned smoothly and the engine purred as he reversed onto the dimly lit street. His destination: nowhere, population: him.
Two hours later he found himself staggering on the edge of a cliff. He recalled a random collection of winding dirt roads, but had no idea how he ended up at this particular spot, in fact he had no idea where he was. Toes curled and uncurled, indecisive about the 50 foot fall into a black, choppy lake. The moon’s reflection peered up at him, calling fall into me, I am safe.
What does it matter anyway? This thought wasn’t shocking. Truthfully, it didn’t matter; there was nowhere else to go.
He released the tension in all of his muscles and fell, limp, towards the reflection of the moon.
There was a note, fluttering, under the windshield wipers of his car, parked only feet from the cliff.
*I’m going somewhere.