When I was fourteen.
I was bruised and bloodied from the visit with my father, and Tate had found it at the bottom of a box underneath my bed.
She hadn’t come to wish me “Happy Birthday” tonight.
I’d caught her snooping.
And I’d just pushed her away for not telling her what she already knew.
I barreled out of the driveway and drove hard. Down the street and to the edge of town where the lights didn’t reach.
Driving helped clear my head, and it was now a mess again because of Tate. I wasn’t running. I was detaching.
She wouldn’t understand, and she would sure as shit see me differently. Why didn’t she see that it wasn’t important?
I could’ve been gentler about it, I guess, but she kept prying into shit that wasn’t her business.
I strangled the shit out of the steering wheel, willing myself to stay on the gas and not turn around.
I couldn’t go back. She’d want to know it all, and the shame I felt for what I’d done to my brother outweighed the shame I felt for what I’d done to her.
Didn’t she see that some things were better left buried? “Go. Help your brother,” my father tells me, too gently. My hands are shaking, and I look back at him.
What’s going on? I ask myself.
“Don’t act like you have a choice.” He gestures me on with the bottle in his hand.
The wooden stairs creek with each step I take, and the small light below offers me no comfort.
It’s like the creepy light coming from an old furnace, but I can feel the air getting chillier the more I descend.
I look back at my father, where he stands in the kitchen at the top of the stairs, and feel more and more like I’m being sucked into a black hole.
I’d never be seen again.
Date: 2015-02-16; view: 543