Sonia!:

Chew??? 

There was a ring of light, an inverted halo that drifted absently on the muddy gravel road. It hung there, lazy and perfect, advancing as we did, distinct and almost white against the dark grey of the sky. Two shadows stretched through the circle and on down the road, made impossibly long and thin by the angle of the light.

The night had been black a few minutes back, dark enough that avoiding the puddles was more a matter of feeling the road than anything--a soft spot here means you're close to the deeper puddles, and if you can see anything at all, the darker patches in the road mean trouble. It was dark grey now--the sky, not the road--the fuzzy, faded color of the black tee I'd worn since middle school and refused to get rid of. Beads of moisture swarmed like moths in the light, and I remember comparing the halfassed rain to snow in my mind. Snow in August. Nice.

He turned his head to look back at the twin cars, and in the glare of the headlights, I saw that he was more or less relieved to see them. I was past hating him--to be honest, I didn't hate him the whole night. It would've taken too much effort, and he didn't deserve it. Neither of them did.

I moved to the side of the road, walking at an angle and keeping my back straight. It's easier to seem calm if you hold your composure. Hell, it's easier to be calm if you do. Just don't look back, pretend you can't see the flashing red and blue lights staining the backs of your hands. My jeans were soaked around my legs, my hair was wet and matted, and my soggy bookbag clung damply to my lower back. At least it didn't weigh much; there wasn't much more than a toothbrush in there. The wind beat fresh moisture against my face. After the first few blocks, I'd stopped thinking about how cold it was. The wet jeans made my calves itch. That started about as soon as we stopped walking. I shifted my weight, considered scratching my ankle with my other heel, and decided against it.

The slam of a door, and the crunch of gravel. He glanced at me, and I kept my face impassive, as well as I could, anyway--I'd been smiling when my head hit the floor, why should I be upset now? He walked past me, back to them. My father, his face molded into one of concern and resignation. Possibly regret. That was the closest I came to hating him that night; I'd felt like laughing when he'd yelled.

I kept my back to the lights. Being blinded by them that one time at the lake had been enough, thanks. They weren't that bright this time, but I guess I just wanted a reason not to move. I tried to count off the seconds against my heartbeat. No good. My pulse was ridiculously slow, considering how fast we'd been walking a few minutes earlier. I guess it felt as apathetic as I did.

This again. Flashbacks to freshman year--he's shoving me down the stairs to get me to go to church, they're calling the police because I left the house to get away from them for a while, they're screaming their faces red because I'm not who they want me to be. Same scenario, different year. Waiting for the hand on my shoulder. But why wait?

I turned back to them. My father, his green eyes bloodshot, but not as badly as mine, I'm sure. My eyes are always bloodshot anymore.

"How are you folks tonight?"

Silence from my father. A moment to consider the oddities of our society--a rush of thoughts, what to say, what not to say, how best to keep my voice from shaking. Read them faster than they can read me.

"Fine, thanks, how are are you?"

Mmhhmm, right answer, shakeless once I moved from the declarative to the question. Force of habit. A bit of dialogue that was lost to me almost as soon as it was over, and then I was stepping back toward the ring of light, toward the front of the cars and away from him. Brief conversation with the younger officer. His eyes were blue-green and clear, easy to read. He was the one that pulled me over the night at the lake, and the one that helped me drive my car out of the mud it got stuck in. A bit of mumbling, and then the anticipated question:

"Why did you run away?"

"I'd've been home by morning." And to be perfectly honest, it wasn't running away. I was walking quickly. Away. And I would've been home by morning, or soon thereafter. I had a contact case, a toothbrush, deodorant, and a clean tee shirt. Not exactly moving-out packing.

"You'd have been home by morning...but why'd you leave?"

A few minutes to breathe, to consider lying--I just didn't want to listen to them? That would've worked, but my mouth was already open, reflexively answering honestly. I'd lied enough recently; it should have been easy. Old habits, I guess.

"He hit me."

"Where'd he hit you?"

I felt my eyes widen. Didn't catch that in time. I opened my mouth, hoping it'd pull the answer from my brain. It didn't. Couldn't remember. The back of my head, still sore. My arms had been red when I'd walked out the door. The side of my face had hurt when I'd left, but I wasn't feeling much just then. Too cold.

"The back of my head."

"Closed fist, open hand, what?"

Remembering being shoved down against the couch, his hands knotting and yanking at my hair. Remembering screaming 'fuck you' at him. Twice. That, and 'don't you ever fucking touch me again'. Remembering him running down the hall at me, and just wondering how someone so heavy could move that fast. Remembering standing in the bathroom door, one of his hands holding me to the wall, the other curled into a fist, wavering as it ducked toward me again and again, threatening but not falling. Him wanting to break my face, but afraid of the consequences. Remembering wondering what'd happen if your front teeth broke and you swallowed them. Remembering staring up from the floor at that red, yelling face and smiling. Remembering his hands falling, and I'd barely felt it. Remembering him yelling at me, the rotten little bitch, and all the rest of it, and my mother saying something about him not going to jail because of me. Remembering that it didn't matter, that by the time I got out the door, he was already waiting for me, ready to follow me and apologize and tell me to go home and ready to call the police.

"I don't remember."

"Don't remember? Blocked it out, or what?"

"Don't know, don't remember."

"Did he hit you hard?"

A second to think. I really couldn't remember much at that point, just pointless bits. 'You don't respect us!', and how blue the bathroom carpet is. The lighting in there really looks nice from the floor.

"Not hard enough to damage anything."

Something about what music I listen to. I asked him whether it was pertinent and he kinda shrugged. I told him to take a guess and he'd be right. He told me my dad said I listen to Manson. Yeah, well, I do. He said he'd never have guessed that, looking at me, and he's not judging, I sort of shrugged. I like the music, I'm not a cultist, and I told him so. Again, he's not judging, and he tells me so. It wouldn't matter to me if he was. Everyone else does; I'm beyond letting it bother me.

Some more dialogue, and he took us home. They're not too liberal with leg room in the backs of police cars. They gave us the option of walking, but dad didn't want to walk. Only a few minutes' drive, and I'm back to where I started. The younger policeman tells me that I can call him if I ever need to talk, that he's not much older than me and he remembers the fighting with parents and all of that. I go through the motions, yes thanks, I'm sorry, what's your name?, and yes, I'll remember.

"Are you alright?"

I took a step back. Damn my reflexes. I'd thought I had more control than that. I met his eyes; I could still do that much.

"Yeah."

"It's my job to read people, and you don't..."

His voice trailed off, and I found myself thinking that yes, that was my job too. Reading people. That, and making sure no one could read me. I wasn't doing too well with that just then.

"I'm fine." Then again, without shaking. "I'm fine." Not convincing, maybe, but I was too tired to convince anyone of anything.

"Alright, then..."

Up toward the porch, Grass on the Ground meowing loudly, hopping down the stairs and staring up at me with huge eyes. Dad went on into the house, I stopped to put fresh food in the cat's bowl. The police radios crackled on the street, and I headed upstairs to make a phone call.