(Short fiction)
I drive away from you.
I drive away from you.
As the distance between us grows, I
expect to feel calmer, safer. But adrenaline still pumps through my
heart, pushing through my veins. My body sings with the luxury of a
new emotion: anger. It takes all worry about what the future brings
and pushes it into the backseat. For now, I'm free from you. From
your judgment, your rules, your temper.
Your fucking rules. At first, they felt
random and haphazard, but you carefully crafted them to stack the
deck against me. The house always wins, so you became the house.
You are worthless. Selfish.
Inconsiderate bitch. You can't do anything right.
Just like building
a snowflake out of a piece of paper, you started with something
whole, then cut away the excess. A snip here, a cut there, the
unwanted parts of me sloughed off, falling to the cutting floor. Self
esteem, feelings of love and hope, a sense of fairness—you punched
your holes, snipped your corners, and I unfurled, exactly in the
shape you wanted. How pretty.
A snowflake doesn't know it was ever
anything else.
I keep driving, saying aloud the things
I never could say to your face. Like how you never did a goddamn thing for me. I did your laundry, washed
your dishes, cleaned your floors, mowed your lawn. When I got my
license, I ran your errands. Everything you ever did for me served you in the end. Over the years, I
got skilled at looking behind the curtain to find your true
motivation.
Even “favors” that wouldn’t cost
you a thing, like a night at a friend’s house, you’d make me
pay. "What are you going to do for me?" My whole life, I've
been paying. Paying back, paying with time, paying with favors.
Paying out of my own hide.
You called it discipline, but I was
onto you. There was nowhere to put the misery of your forty-year-old,
dead-end life, besides your own fists.
.
I learned when to hide. Like a mouse
hiding from an owl, I hunkered down, flattened my ears, breathed
shallowly. I'm not here. I'm invisible. Fueled by alcohol and
god-knows-what, your nocturnal hunt never ended well for me. You
screamed and raged and punched and slapped your anger into my skin.
You never were sorry.
I keep driving, turning over the pieces of my anger like stones in a pocket. I revisit each time you hurt me, replaying the scene in my head.
Like the time I decided you
would never hurt me again. I begged you to stop and you wouldn't.
Please stop. Please, Mom. Please. Please.
I felt blood coming out of my nose, out of my mouth. My tooth went
flying through the air.
That night, I sat on my bed with my
head bowed and my own tooth in my hand. This wasn't life; it was a
long, slow death.
Today, though, I wouldn't let you hit
me. I hit you, instead.
I hit you and fucking ran.
I start screaming at you, though I know
you're not here. Or, are you? These stones I carry around
with me, they're you. They'll always be with me, a part of me that I
can't shake. I scream until I'm hoarse, until there's nothing but the
tears I would never let you see me shed.
I
can't stop driving. If you catch me, I’m dead. Maybe you’ll kill
me; maybe you won’t. If you fail, I will succeed.
Maybe
I'm already dead.
I just keep driving.
I started to catch on that this must be about a parent and felt my anger grow with the character. Very intense.
ReplyDeleteWow. I wasn't consciously trying to make it a mystery, but reading through it again, I can see it reads that way. Thanks for the insight!
ReplyDelete