Finding Home
by Gregory Carrico
The yawn hit me with such violent strength and speed that I had
no hope of resisting it. It pried my mouth open and forced my eyelids to
squeeze closed. It utterly controlled me for three, maybe four seconds, but that
was plenty of time for the minivan to drift over the line onto the grooved
shoulder. The whole vehicle shook and hummed like a car-sized bumble bee. The
yawn died, and my pulse slammed into overdrive.
Jerking the van back onto the pavement, I smacked myself four
times in the face, hard enough to make my eyes water and my hand sting. The
blue digital clock in the dash dimly said 4:58 AM, which meant I had been
driving for over sixteen hours.
With three more cans of RC Cola and a plastic bag of questionable
lunch meat in the electric cooler, I should have been able to keep going for a
while, yet, but my brain was starting to struggle to find its way through my
mental fog. I needed to sleep.
“You haven’t earned sleep, yet,” my other voice said. “What kind
of pathetic man are you, anyway? You’re even smoking women’s cigarettes!”
He was right. I was weak. I was practically a woman. I flipped the
lid to the console ash tray open, and stuffed the Ultra-Slim Menthol down among
the other butts, noticing the whore-red lipstick rings on nearly half of them. It
was just another reminder of what that hateful bitch had forced me to do. Not
wanting to think about that, I opened the window and dumped them out onto the
highway.
“Clever. Just throw your trash on the street, and let someone
else clean up after you. Who deserves to have hard working people follow them
around and pick up their trash more than you do? It must be tiring, being such
a good person.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, starting to cry. I could never do anything
right. My tears would only invite more scorn, but I couldn’t help it. Instead
of insults, though, I heard sirens. I looked over my shoulder, past the toddler-sized
car seat and the canvas bag of soccer balls, at a police cruiser, speeding up
behind me.
“Dammit!” I yelled, punching the steering wheel. “How did he
find me so fast? What do I do?”
“Pull over. Get arrested. Go to prison. You might as well get it
over with. It’s where you belong, after all; with the rest of the bad people.”
I knew my other voice was being sarcastic, but maybe he was
right. “I’m so tired of always running. I don’t want to do it anymore. I just
can’t…”
I switched the right turn signal on, and pulled out of the left
lane. Except for the cop, there were no other cars on the road. I briefly
wondered what it would be like to be a police officer, but as I slipped into
the right lane, he sped up and drove by.
I let out a breath that I didn’t realize I had been holding, and
laughed. Was it a sign? Everything happened for a reason. Maybe I really did
deserve something good for once. If not, I’d be in the back of a police
cruiser. This was the sign. It must be.
Just as I started feeling a tiny bit of hope, I saw my sneering
face in the rearview mirror, and my budding confidence oozed out of me into a
pool of toxic sludge. I wailed with pure despair, weeping like that little boy…
but I couldn’t think about that now.
“I just want to go home,” I said, gritting my teeth against the
sobs that shook my whole body. My knuckles were white on the steering wheel. “It’s
not supposed to be like this.”
My other voice was uncharacteristically comforting. “Okay, okay.
We’ll go home. But not to our last one; never to that one again. We’ll have to
find a new one. We’ll be ok. I’m going to help us get through this.”
“You will? Really?” I sniffed hard to stop my nose from
dripping. Why did that always happen when I cried? It must be some sort of
punishment. “Can we really find a new home? I want to be a normal person. I
could get a job. I don’t care what it is. I could be a teacher.” Stop
thinking about that
by Gregory Carrico
The yawn hit me with such violent strength and speed that I had
no hope of resisting it. It pried my mouth open and forced my eyelids to
squeeze closed. It utterly controlled me for three, maybe four seconds, but that
was plenty of time for the minivan to drift over the line onto the grooved
shoulder. The whole vehicle shook and hummed like a car-sized bumble bee. The
yawn died, and my pulse slammed into overdrive.
Jerking the van back onto the pavement, I smacked myself four
times in the face, hard enough to make my eyes water and my hand sting. The
blue digital clock in the dash dimly said 4:58 AM, which meant I had been
driving for over sixteen hours.
With three more cans of RC Cola and a plastic bag of questionable
lunch meat in the electric cooler, I should have been able to keep going for a
while, yet, but my brain was starting to struggle to find its way through my
mental fog. I needed to sleep.
“You haven’t earned sleep, yet,” my other voice said. “What kind
of pathetic man are you, anyway? You’re even smoking women’s cigarettes!”
He was right. I was weak. I was practically a woman. I flipped the
lid to the console ash tray open, and stuffed the Ultra-Slim Menthol down among
the other butts, noticing the whore-red lipstick rings on nearly half of them. It
was just another reminder of what that hateful bitch had forced me to do. Not
wanting to think about that, I opened the window and dumped them out onto the
highway.
“Clever. Just throw your trash on the street, and let someone
else clean up after you. Who deserves to have hard working people follow them
around and pick up their trash more than you do? It must be tiring, being such
a good person.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, starting to cry. I could never do anything
right. My tears would only invite more scorn, but I couldn’t help it. Instead
of insults, though, I heard sirens. I looked over my shoulder, past the toddler-sized
car seat and the canvas bag of soccer balls, at a police cruiser, speeding up
behind me.
“Dammit!” I yelled, punching the steering wheel. “How did he
find me so fast? What do I do?”
“Pull over. Get arrested. Go to prison. You might as well get it
over with. It’s where you belong, after all; with the rest of the bad people.”
I knew my other voice was being sarcastic, but maybe he was
right. “I’m so tired of always running. I don’t want to do it anymore. I just
can’t…”
I switched the right turn signal on, and pulled out of the left
lane. Except for the cop, there were no other cars on the road. I briefly
wondered what it would be like to be a police officer, but as I slipped into
the right lane, he sped up and drove by.
I let out a breath that I didn’t realize I had been holding, and
laughed. Was it a sign? Everything happened for a reason. Maybe I really did
deserve something good for once. If not, I’d be in the back of a police
cruiser. This was the sign. It must be.
Just as I started feeling a tiny bit of hope, I saw my sneering
face in the rearview mirror, and my budding confidence oozed out of me into a
pool of toxic sludge. I wailed with pure despair, weeping like that little boy…
but I couldn’t think about that now.
“I just want to go home,” I said, gritting my teeth against the
sobs that shook my whole body. My knuckles were white on the steering wheel. “It’s
not supposed to be like this.”
My other voice was uncharacteristically comforting. “Okay, okay.
We’ll go home. But not to our last one; never to that one again. We’ll have to
find a new one. We’ll be ok. I’m going to help us get through this.”
“You will? Really?” I sniffed hard to stop my nose from
dripping. Why did that always happen when I cried? It must be some sort of
punishment. “Can we really find a new home? I want to be a normal person. I
could get a job. I don’t care what it is. I could be a teacher.” Stop
thinking about that
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