Broken

Discussion: I had to read it a few times to understand who is saying they are sorry (and maybe I still got it wrong). Now, reading it, I cringe at the constant "I'm sorry" as I have seen that a lot with others in "situations" and you want to shake them and tell them to run (or swerve) away. I hand him a wrench, 14 mm and then the pliers. He is impressed by my knowledge of tools - "..at such a young age", he says. The hood slams and he motions for me to get in for a test drive. I hesitate before he assists, pushes me into the vehicle. He says I helped him fix it, so now I can help determine if the problem is fixed. Deep down I know this is a lie, but it makes me feel good that somebody is finally listening to me. I fasten the seat belt and he laughs as a cigarette dangles between his bottom lip and mustache. I wonder how the mustache does not make him sneeze. He slams the recently installed gear shit into reverse and we speed away. I watch our trailer, my home, get smaller in the review mirror before it is completely gone. I surprise myself by wondering if I will see it again. My arm dangles out the window as the car speeds down the highway. He slaps the steering while while pulling a cigarette from his shirt pocket, he seems happy, everything working as expected. I revel in the moment, losing myself in the false freedom of being away and on my own. The trance breaks as he squeezes my shoulder, I turn to meet his gaze, like I am being measured. The convenience store is a blur as we fly by - I wonder if Denise is working, maybe she saw me in the car window. The park is strangely empty, but then again it is a weekday afternoon - people do have to work, as Dad says. I sway side to side as he navigates the car down the tree-lined roads, getting darker as we go deeper into the park. A lump forms in my throat as I think of the missing girl’s bike found at the mall - whatever happened to Ann Gottlieb? The dying leaves, wet from the recent rain - their distinct aroma fill the interior. I reach out attempting to grab a handful from the branches as we creep past, closing my eyes while taking a deep breath - opening them when he turns off the engine. He flicks the cigarette butt out the window before rolling them up. I turn and meet his gaze. He seems reluctant, unsure of what to do next. It is a skill, my ability to read people, often rightly guessing their next move. His hand strokes my leg, a squeeze of the knee, grabbing and pulling. The sound of friction against the vinyl seat as he leans closer. I close my eyes as I hear the click of the door locks. His breath is sour, a mixture of tobacco and the Coke he had been drinking - it covers the top of my head. I hold my breath as his other hand is on the back of my neck. Time seems to stand still, I want to yell but nothing comes out. Suddenly, we are both still, his heavy breathing the only sound. I am pushed back, we are now back in our starting positions. He leans forward, mumbling, berating himself. He grabs my hand again, ordering me to bow my head as the Lord's Prayer is recited. I mumble, not fully remembering the words, I want to go home.