Tainted Energy

Chapter 2: Accidents Happen

There's no place like home...There's no place like...Oh, wait, there is. Rusted palaces just like mine usually found on Cops...Bad boys, bad boys...shut up, brain.

I wasn't running away. Swear to God. I thought about it, though. Thought about it every morning when I followed the path through the woods to the school and back. After last night, escaping sounded perfect. Not possible, but pretty damn great to think about.

The daily ritual gave me an hour with the frost biting my nose and dead leaves crunching under my old sneakers. Running was kind of mandatory, seeing as how track started next week, but I loved it.

Out here, there was no dumb shit dad, no helpless mom. No worry an anxiety attack would interfere with my ability to ignore school's rigid caste system, of which I stayed planted in the bottom rung–the untouchables. Trees didn't care where I lived. Squirrels didn't judge my clothes. But as usual, the view of the trailer park ended my life-pardon.

I stopped at the wood's edge for a minute, slowing my breath. One month and I was out of here. Not even the crazy shit from last night could dampen that excitement.

One foot met muddy asphalt as a breeze pushed through the sweaty hair stuck on my forehead and rustled the barren tree limbs. The air felt warm on my face, defrosting my runny nose–a deep contrast to the crisp, spring morning breeze.

Odd, but hey, warm air? I'd take it.

Then I heard it again, the same voice from last night.

Lena. My name carried through another bout of warm air, soft but clear.

"Hello?"

It's time.

There it was again, an almost delicate voice, but definitely belonging to a man.

"Not funny, asshole." I went for irritated, but my squeaky voice betrayed me.

The rusted heap I lived in never sounded so safe.

I threw the front door open with a loud bang as soon as I hit the first cement block. The crazy wind and breathy voice wasn't a good enough reason not to try to piss off the deadbeat. My efforts went unappreciated.

Dad's alcohol coma hadn't worn off, his feet still propped on the half-empty case of beer. He slouched in the same beat-up wicker chair as last night while loud snores escaped his mouth. A can of Genesee dangled in his right hand, its contents leaking from the opening.

The hate in my chest suffocated me. He spent most of his time in this room, admiring the Native American pictures he had collected from garage sales and flea markets, drinking himself into a sloppy mess. He swore they'd be worth money someday, even the velvet ones.

Useless.

Dangerous.

Worse, he'd never let Mom go without a fight.

Shaking my head, I stalked toward the smell of burnt eggs.

My frustration turned to anger when I noticed a brand new bruise coloring Mom's left eye. "He give that to you?"

She scraped at the bottom of the cast-iron skillet with a spatula, not answering. The new shiner explained her absence last night. Dad usually left her alone after he lost his temper.

"Why this time?"

Mom stopped torturing the eggs and looked up, her bottom lip shaking. Level-ten rage sent me back to the living room.

Her narrow hand reached for my sweatshirt sleeve. "Lena, stop. What're you gonna do, anyway?"

"Smashing one of those dumb pictures over his head sounds good about now."