# 11. Belonging[s].

"Attention passengers. Coach 115 will depart for Sydney from terminal 2 in five minutes. Please ensure you have all of your belongings with you. Thank you".

I glanced toward the dated, green megaphone as it amplified the message over the din of the terminal. The porcelain cone, putrid with stains of exposure, crackles punctually to life to herald the departure of every Greyhound Coach, but even so, my upturned cheeks were sprinkled with red dust as the detached voice sounded.

I considered briefly, the concept of belongings. It was true enough that most of my own belongings were tucked within the iron bowels of Coach 115, cramped tightly into the unremarkable green suitcase I wedged beneath a lavender makeup case, and a hideous yellow surfboard that I imagined was the exact colour of disease. It reminded me of typhoid, or jaundice, or something equally as nasty. The makeup case reminded me of my mother.

Other than the suitcase, I had only my tatty, hand sewn handbag and a backpack that housed the essentials, namely, two soggy cheese and tomato sandwiches, a bottle of water and my leather-bound journal.

But what of my other belongings? Surely the boys, in some way or other, belonged to me too? They were my brothers. My comrades. For a length of time, they were my problem. And I had certainly left them behind. My conscience gave a wrench.

A quickly formed line to my right caught my attention. The coach was boarding; it's many passengers scrabbling to assemble themselves in the que with the finess that a flock of hungry seagulls might approach a solitary breadcrust. To their left sat the tuckshop, and to my immediate right, the generalised hustle and bustle of skew luggage and confused tourists ambling about over the cesspool of scarlett earth. And then, as though some do-good bastard had divided the sea of debilitating red dirt himself, I saw across the terminal, a phone booth. It's vandalised plastic walls shimmered with heat in the afternoon sun, reminding me of the squiggly lines that surrounded crude dog piles Evan and I would draw as children. Evan. Evan, Jack and Noah. They would worry...wonder where I had gone...what had happened to me. If revenge is best served cold, I think that impetuosity is best eaten in a single meal, so as to prevent the regrets of an upset stomach later on. It's not something that can easily be zapped back to life after shelving.

In a snap decision, I slung my black canvas backpack atop my shoulder and ran like mad toward the booth. Though dirty, grimy and deftly decorated with purple chewing gum, the phone appeared to be in working order. I jammed my hand into the pocket of my shorts and withdrew the change I had received from my ticket. It would be just enough for one call, and in that thought, I began to realise how truly criminal I was behaving.

Having dialled the number, I rested my perspiring forehead against the window, focusing my eyes upon a few lurid green scrawls of graffiti. 'ron luvs jeeni'. And as I waited for someone on the other end of the line to pick up, I wished that things could be as simple for me as they seemed to be for Ron. If the complicated war taking place within the confines of my own heart could be soothed by a badly punctuated declaration of love - in green - in a public telephone booth, and better yet, with the misspelling of my name...I could only assume I would be happier for it. Blissfully ignorant.

The tinny recording of my own dulcet voice snapped my attention back to the task at hand. There was no one home. That would make things easier. I took a deep breath and coughed, naturally, from the crap circulating - or not circulating - in the gelatinous air of the phonebooth, and began.

"Evan, Jack, Noah - it's me. I-" I remembered the soon-to-depart coach and gave a start. The line of passengers had dwindled down to a mere two or three people. "I haven't any time to explain, but I'm going. I don't know when I'll be back." and as a parting word: "Don't let Noah skate in the house. I have to go".

And I hung up.

It took effort to burst from the overheated phonebooth without catching myself on anything. My mind wasn't on any of the four bag straps strung around me, strings around a ham; it certainly wasn't on my plaid jersey as the rusted metal lattice of the directory shelf tore a monumental hole in it. I was thinking about the skating. Why had I said that?

And as I handed my sweat-stained ticket to the conducter, bagstraps twisted sagging and completely out of breath, I was still silently berating myself for being such a menial bastard. Here was I, leaving everything behind, and the only thing they would have to remember me by was an answerphone recording telling Noah not to skate inside the house. "I'm sorry, what was that?" I asked, wondering why the conducter's finger was hovering in the vicinity of my ear.

"Sorry love, you've got dirt in your ear" she said, smiling kindly. It must have been the damned phone. I forced a smile and plodded onto the bus, wiping my hand over my ear as I went. Perhaps it was a sign that, belongings in hand or not, I could never quite leave everything behind after all.

# 10. Revel.

I have waited too long. Pretending to be comfortable in this sticky, fibro life. It's time to go.
The heavy, woollen blanket itches the backs of my reddening knees and with each passing second I can bear it a little less. I give up sitting on the bed. Pacing seems a good enough way to pass these shuddering moments. Waiting for my family to return seemed a significant thing to do, but now I ache to be free.

My pacing changes subtly, and I find myself making a slow tour of the house.
Each peeling room is torturously bright, as though begging me to remember it with painful clarity. I carry myself delicately, squinting to observe the humble dwelling. I know it would hurt more not to take a last look.

I reach the front door surprisingly quickly. Dark oak. Brass handle.
This door is full of false bravado. Obviously thinking itself sturdy and indestructible.
How wrong the notions we have of ourselves can be. Carefully I trace the carvings in the frame that mark our heights and ages at various intervals. It seems such a pointless way to mark the passage of Time. On a door that will be left behind in our dusty past. Our life- Time, is really marked by the doors we leave behind. Opening and closing and leaving.

With these bitter thoughts, all shards of sentimentality seep away.
I am sick of waiting. I want to feel reality beneath my feet.

The door moves easily when I touch the handle- reaffirming its true fragility. I take my suitcase and shuffle across the porch. The weather is impeccably perfect. Slightly windy, fresh. The kind of weather that tangles your hair and makes you believe something good is coming.
This weather demands a spring in your step. I will comply.

The local bus to the interstate terminal runs every half hour. Which gives me 15 minutes to get to the closest bus-stop. This weather will carry me there. As I take the front gate at a run, I can't help but click my heels.
Revelling