equinox [h.s]

ten

My body has been ramrod straight ever since I'd wearily dragged myself into the car. The only noise being the world passing by outside the windows, which seems to be surprisingly very loud tonight.

Another surprise that has captured my attention in the span of me getting in the car, is the fact that my father has not uttered a word. Not even slightly. Which, to my horror, terrifies me more. So much more.

I try to think— have I ever really done something to the degree of this before? To the point where I'm worried about what words my own dad may say to me? Where would he start? He could definitely point out many things. And yet he sits quietly, eyes focused on the road before us, on the same streets he so often rides down.

It's almost amusing how much the brain goes into action when getting caught. How much information it goes over, and over and over.

My fingers which rest on the window ledge beside me, tap methodically, I wonder to what, until I realise it's the too-fast beat of my heart. An odd track to unconsciously be aware of.

With the realisation, I swallow down slowly, dryly.

Now more than anything I want the laughs, the jokes he so normally spits out. I hate not knowing what may come out of his mouth. The fact that I could so normally read him up until now scares me more than I'm even aware of. To the point where my own mind questions why on earth I even wanted to do what I did tonight.

Though my self conscious is quick to remind me of all the reasons I was there in the first place and why I need to allow not one person to try and persuade me different. Because they so easily could, yet change needs to start somewhere. I made my own mind up for once and now I need to own it.

Yet still, my eyes wearily travel over to my father, who still peers at the road as if it were the most interesting thing. I nestle back into the seat a little further.

I focus back on the window, not really seeing through it, but a million and one other things. The low hum of the radio echoes like an eerie silence, and I suddenly feel an ounce of what many men have no doubt felt on the receiving end of having to deal with my dad.

So we go, and go and go, out past the main point of town, and it isn't until we get pretty far, trailing down the familiar street of our home that I really start to sweat.

He pulls the handbrake up once we settle into the driveway, sitting idly outside of our own home. I've never thought our house so unusually quiet until now, until my eyes sway down to the digital clock of the car and it reads way past a time anybody would be awake.

"You're not so talkative when you're in trouble." His gravelly voice breaks the unbearable silence.

I'm quick to meet him, his side profile anyway — since he seems to be focusing hard on anywhere that isn't my way. I stay looking at him regardless. "I'm never in trouble." I tell him.

"Exactly," He grumbles, "Never heard you this quiet before, B. Don't know how I'm meant to reprimand you, you're hardly the sibling to cause trouble."

I inhale to gather my thoughts, wanting to smile but not doing so, body slightly shifted his way to make sure he has my attention, "Then don't reprimand me. This doesn't need to be made a problem." My hopeful, buzzing insides are quick to settle when I notice he makes no secretive grin, no cheeky smirk to let me know that he's on my side.

"It became a problem the moment my men saw you on that stage, Beatrix. In my club. My daughter on stage in my own club." He goes over the fact, "And I didn't even know about it. God forbid if I had actually been there." He talks and yet his words are aimed for the windscreen, not me.