||[Sep. 19th, 2007|09:51 am]
The rusty old car is all she could afford and she stood beside it having second thoughts about leaving. her torn faded jeans let too much of the bitter cold autumn air and her thick black hair needed combing; she had dressed quietly, in the dark, a spontaneous last minute thought. She was not going to stay; they were too cruel and she knew it as abuse one must not fight. No, one must flee and relinquish thoughts that this was cowardly. The car was bought two days ago by her in secret and it sat on the other side of the road, across from the house, shedding flakes of red rust. They would walk by, her family, and point and stare and ask, what is that? who parked it there? It was old and coughed like an old man with a chest cold when she started it up yet, it was her only means of escape. Four hundred and seventy-five dollars it cost her. The greasy man who sold it to her was honest when he said it was a good ol' car but it won't get too far. All she cared about was getting far enough away and then she could walk. She was seventeen and in a few weeks would turn eighteen. However, her impatience and the insufferable abuse made her decide now was the time.|
She left everything in her room, her stuffed animals, her tv, her posters, her stereo. She left it all except three books of poetry, pen and paper, and her laptop. The bicycle would not fit anywhere on or in the old car so she had to leave it behind. She inhaled the cool air sharply " this is it" she said. as she wrestled to open the rusted door, she cut her finger and a few drops of crimson blood splattered onto the pavement. she shook her finger in pain then, climbed into the car. She shut the door and turned on the coughing old man who sputtered at her in grumpy choking defiance. as the car slowly awoke, she looked up and there stood her father, in front of the car, his robe open. He was as hairy as grendel and lumpy as old mashed potatoes. He said not a word; her heart pounded in her chest and the panic gurgled in her intestines. He had the pistol, oh God, he had the pistol clutched in his claw.
"I knew it was you who got the car" he growled. "turn that off Donna and come back into the house." She shook her head violently and he jumped angrily onto the hood of the car, knocking a pancake-sized piece of rust off of the hood. She quickly locked the doors and he raised the pistol at her from the other side of the wind shield glass. She screamed with no voice and tears blinded her sight. Slam, her foot landed like three tons of pressure onto the gas petal and the car roared like a lion, thrashing its mane from side to side, knocking her father off of the hood. Never before had she heard and felt such power; maybe she underestimated the old car. She rapidly switched to reverse and then back to drive yet, her father was up on his feet again and he threw himself in front of the car waving the pistol. The petal appeared to press of its own accord as the car roared a mighty sound from the engine and leaped forward growling. The thump of her father underneath was soft and ended within a few seconds. She was crying and as the car sped away, her with it, she looked back in the rear view mirror dreading the worst. As the car flew down the street, the form in the road grew smaller and the tiny man in the road got up, and limped back into the house. She sighed in relief, but now, she would have to hide. He will tell lies now; make it out that she was the abuser and she tried to kill him even though the truth was, she only wanted her life back. She only wanted to be free.