Push

Run

Under my feet lies cracked and weathered tarmac. My body is surrounded by trees framing a field with nothing in it except an old, abandoned, rotting tool shed and a shallow frog pond. I watch the last hour of sunlight burn inside the tree line in a veil of golden fog, try not to notice the feeling of my empty stomach begging for attention, and the pinching wind on my cheeks.
Run.
Lose sense of purpose.
Lose momentum.
Why I am running?
Why did I decide to cut through the dense, fog-covered field rather than staying on the road?
Keep going.
A woman appears in front of me on my right side as I run. She is an older, wiser reflection of myself. She states what is on my mind, and what will remain on my mind for the years to come when I reflect on this moment:
"He is going to kill you."
My own voice rings in my head as I pick up the pace. "You're literally going to die." My socks begin to sop up the mist. My feet grow cold as the wetness seeps through the fabric of my old black high-tops.

"Your shoes are soaked, and you're late, do you really think you're going to get away with this?"
Run; faster.
"You're going to regret this for a long time." Future me disappears in an instant, looking as disappointed as I feel. Keep moving. I am too determined to get home in one piece to think about what may happen to me after I step through my front door.
What will the look on his face be?
What he will say, if anything at all.
Run.
His schedules and tendencies are etched in my memory. I know what day it is and what mood will greet me upon my tardy arrival home. What he told me before I left the house plays in my head in a quiet echo: Come home at six-thirty.
I could not do it.
His words and his curfew become a mantra in my head, screaming and pounding as hard as my heart pounds and screams under my shirt.
I know him – and I have absolutely no excuse.
Eventually, my body comes to a dead halt at the end of my driveway. I look down the hill at my house in all its glory: a small yellow mobile home with black shutters, a red tool-shed, and a white porch, nestled in a cocoon of Ponderosa pines and fog; and his car, a golden Grand Marquis with a black hardtop. Through our kitchen window, I see that the light is on in our living room. And though I do not see his reflection staring back at me through the window, waiting, I cannot assume that he won't be sitting on the couch smoking a cigarette, ready to give me what he deems I deserve when I enter.
Silently, I wonder how many seconds I have wasted by standing here. Alternatively, I wonder if I could just stand here forever. Swiftly, I move down the hill, open the porch door, and step inside. His television blares through his bedroom wall. My hand grasps onto the handle of our white screen door. Hesitantly, I step inside the house as quietly as I can, feeling nerves shoot up and down my fingertips as I release the doorknob. A wave of heat presses against my face, and from across the kitchen I notice the time on our stove:
18:53
Twenty-three minutes late...

Gently, the front door presses against the threshold and I hear the screen door rattle slightly behind it. I break a rule by not taking off my shoes and proceed quickly into my bedroom, slicing through an unoccupied living room, so silently that I don't even think my feet were on the floor. I sit on my bed, safe for now, and slowly peel a pair of wet shoes off my freezing cold feet. I do not hear anybody, so I assume that it is safe to take a shower.
Once under the hot, steamy water, I press my hands into my face, wondering how in the hell I've made it as far as I have. Water runs down my back and through my sweaty hair. I scratch my nails over the palms of my hands nervously and I watch myself, careful as always, just in case I slip up or get noticed. Carefully managing my time, I shower as quickly and as quietly as possible. Afterwards, I throw my clothes into the washing machine.
I hear his bedroom door slide open. His footsteps shake the floor in the living room. His bulky silhouette looms in the hallway and approaches me. My back straightens quickly; I pray my slumped posture goes unnoticed. He has a cigarette pressed in between his index and middle finger.
"So..."
He knows.
He knows I came home late.
It's best not to lie to him.
Just tell the truth.
"What time is it?"
I panic, and decide not to listen to myself. "I don't know. I came in at 6:30 and just got out of the shower."
He studies me, and I can see the wheels turning in his eyes. My father, I swear, he can read me like a newspaper. He knows my habits before they develop. He knows my mistakes before I even get around to making them. And he knows when I am lying to him like I know my own first name.
"Why didn't you tell me when you got home?" He takes in a mouthful of cigarette smoke and blows it out in my direction.
I try to hold my breath. My tongue dries up and my insides shake with nervousness. "Sorry, I thought you were sleeping."
He takes a step forward. Instinctively, I feel as though I must step away, but fear forces me to stay still. "You could have woken me up." He takes another mouthful of smoke and breathes it out in my face. The feeling makes my head throb and my throat itch. His gaze sweeps through me and into my bedroom, and he locks eyes straight onto my wet, out-of-place shoes.
He points at them, gives me a stern look and uses a deep, vituperative voice when he speaks. His eyes widen and his teeth grit together. "What are your shoes doing in your room?"
My chest tightens.
His fist clenched onto my shirt with a tight yank.
I block out the rest.