The brakes slam, hard. “Get out of the road you prick!!!”
I catch my calm back before it’s flung through the windscreen. Under my breath- ‘Jeeesus…’ Crunching the gears I decide that I won’t go home until Sunday, until I have to, until that fucking horrible paint’s dried.
Who has a pink living room anyway? I mean, really! With stunts like that they might as well just tell my sister all of it! …I don’t get how she hasn’t twigged yet anyway, stupid cow.”
Speeding down the A30, the sun shines in through the windscreen, ringed with rubber Sat-Nav marks and smears from tea-toweled condensation. After the annoyance at the glare I roll down the shitty windows that always stick and actually quite enjoy the heat- Serotonin or something. It won’t last.
I don’t know why I can’t move on from it, you know, properly. It’s been a good half a year since it all happened, plus we up and moved, (away from everything good!) and “things are much better now”. Sometimes, when Mum says those things, its like she even believes them herself. Shit…
I guess this sort of thing affects you for years, or something. I’ll probably be a troubled youth, have a penchant for the betraying bad boy now because of it. Ha! Time will tell, I guess. And I turn on the radio and think to myself; ‘a storyteller and a healer of all wounds…that Time’s a busy bastard!
I told Annie I’d meet her in half an hour. I’ll probably be early now. Shit, I hate being early. Mum’s always early, on purpose and everything. “Better an hour early than a minute late, dear!” Oh shuutttt uppp! I drag out the words in my head, getting angry with her, again. Always getting angry with her.
Why wasn’t she strong enough to leave? Why wasn’t she better than all that?
They told me I could tell her if I felt I needed to- can you believe it? They told me I could tell her.
I thought the open road was meant to be relaxing! But I guess they’re not talking about the open road with a traffic light every fucking fifteen metres, are they. I try and roll a cigarette, before the light flickers amber. I don’t though – Fucking filters, I can never find them.
I change the radio station, digging around for filter sticks in the passenger seat foot well. The song they’re playing is making me think of it, of that woman, of her.
Maybe I should just drive there, now. Turn up and knock on the door and just kick and scream and cry and spit. Maybe then this would all stop- these flashbacks. I wasn’t a part of it, so why do I have to feel so disappointed? To have this burden, and guilt. To have to protect her. I was eighteen, and they made me choose.
They told me I could tell her if I felt I needed to…they told me I could tell her. Jesus…