Bill

There couldn't be a more ordinary existence, I had thought. The repetitive waking, rising, grooming, and leaving. A lifeline packed into a bag that is unceremoniously tossed from one bed to another. The sun rose and blinded already strained eyes through a cracked windshield. Frost clung to the glass in poorly shaved shards at the perimeter.

"You wouldn't be shivering if you wore a bigger coat." Dad chastised behind the wheel with his one hand gripping the leather and the other cupping a mug. And of course this advice is ignorant. There are two teenage girls, no longer small and slim, crammed onto the bench seat next to their father in his truck. Thighs smashed together that stick to the seat in the warmer months and need to be peeled up and off one another. There is hardly room that would have accommodated our regular being, let alone a thicker coat.

"My locker won't fit a coat and I'm not lugging it around with my full backpack all day." I grumbled, not wanting to hear it again, and not dating to give him reason to claim he's "doing ask he can and I need to be more grateful." Every conversation was a platform for his lectures.

"What's in your bag? Books?" He cackled. Insinuating once again that I'm an illiterate. His punishment of choice always was to lock us in our rooms with a book for hours. I took to folding or ripping the pages in protest. As a result, I would stare endlessly at the wall, seeking images in the texture and creating my own adventures . He didn't appreciate that much either.

He dropped us off at our final destination. A massive brick building with small uniform windows and a chain fence causing foot traffic to pick up on the side of the road. We would hop out and retrieve our bags from the bed of the truck. A weight lifting off my shoulders which was quickly replaced with the thick straps of my bag.

"Have a good day." He calls out as he throws the truck in gear. Thick plumes of smoke blowing back into my face. And the ecstacy of the scent spreads a smile across my face. He would leave for two weeks before returning again for one weekend. He cried and begged for more time, but they do not grant that against the children's wishes. His only real grumble being about wanting to reduce child support, not wanting to support his children.

It took two years after graduating for me to see that mundane existence was not mundane, it was toxic. His abuse being mental instead of physical. The hours long monologuing to a captured audience was torture, an abuse of power, and a window in to his delusions. The reality was that he lacked the very control he would white knuckle.

I think fondly of the exhaust billowing into the frigid morning sky. Only after the toxic matter dissipated did I truly understand the rich decadent feeling of breathing fresh air. And when I walked forward, leaving him behind, my day would always be brighter. I ended the cycle and breathe with the knowledge that fresh air is a well deserved treat to share with my children.