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You’ve got to be either the bravest motherfucker around or the stupidest.
Sometimes people say the two go hand-in-hand. This is not one of those times.
You got into a fight with your Bro again earlier. He didn’t put his hands on you this time– thank god, because the bruise around your cheekbone is still drawing attention from underneath your shades, even though it’s barely visible now. It was over something stupid like how you’d been messing with his stuff, to which you retorted that he’s been throwing it around anywhere, but especially in your way, and you were struggling to even leave your room.
He didn’t scream. He barely raised his voice. But he called you ungrateful, insisted that the bedroom was your space to do whatever in, and how the rest of the apartment was his to do what he wanted. Except the bedroom wasn’t your space, because he’d gotten into your room and your stuff constantly before you installed a lock on your door yourself.
There isn’t a point in trying to argue with your Bro. You learned this when you were 8 and you missed a couple weeks of school because you happened to get concussed. You learned it again when you were 11 and asked to spend a couple weeks on a trip with your mom and sister, and he spent the next few hours pressing you about what he could have done so wrong that you’d choose your alcoholic mother over him. You learned it for the hundredth time a few hours ago when he said he had no reason to keep you under his roof, that he was doing this out of the kindness of his heart, and this was how you repaid him.
Something about this time was different. Seventeen years living with him, and you’ve finally realized how fucked up this all really is. You thought about his so-called kindness, which involved keeping just enough food in the house for the mice to get into and going out for days at a time, leaving you alone to “fend for yourself” and eat the paint chips or packing peanuts you could get your hands on.
You’re done. You can’t take this anymore. So you decided to do him a favor. You’re in his shitty pickup truck now, bolting down the highway. You can barely drive– you wonder how intentional Bro’s lack of urgency for you to learn is– but you’re picking it up. Everyone else in Houston drives like a jackass anyway, you’re probably not that much worse than them.
You didn’t tell your mom or sister you were leaving, or that their house was your destination. You were barely planning it yourself. You took the money you’d been saving, grabbed what cash of Bro’s you could find, around a hundred dollars total, and split. You smashed your phone so he couldn’t try to call you– or track you down, if he could do that through your phone. You almost smashed your computer as well, just so he wouldn’t go through anything, but you thought about how much of your life was backed up on that thing, and you couldn’t go through with it. You settled for changing your password to a string of numbers that meant nothing so he couldn’t guess it.
It’s still dark out. You left around 1 AM or so, once you were sure he’d fallen asleep and wouldn’t be waking up for a while. It’s probably about 4 now. You’re hoping to be halfway through Louisiana before he realizes you’re gone. There’s barely anybody else on the road, which is nice. The drive would almost be relaxing if it weren’t for the circumstances around it. Your window is down, and the breeze is on your face. One of Bro’s CDs plays, but you like the music of choice he’s got in here. You wish you’d learned how to drive properly and could do this whenever.
You’re probably going way too fast, but nobody is out anyway for you to crash into. You need to get out of Texas, at least. Thank god Houston happens to be close to the eastmost exit of the state.
The full drive to just outside Parishville, New York will take close to 30 hours. It’s daunting, for sure. You’re hoping to stay awake through it all, but you aren’t entirely sure you could. You wouldn’t mind sleeping in the truck if you had to, but you’d definitely prefer not to.
You don’t actually know the roads very well at all, and since your phone is broken, you don’t have any kind of GPS. You’re hoping the road will take you right there, or as close as you can get before needing to ask for directions locally.
…
You pass the sign welcoming you into Louisiana. You’re officially out of Texas. You let yourself un-tense just a bit.
…
The truck is running low on gas not that far into the new state. You should’ve filled up before you left Houston, but you were in a rush to get out. You can get off the highway and get more though, you should be nearing an exit soon.
You pull into the next gas station you reach, and dig to get your bundle of cash. You flit through it in your hands. It really doesn’t feel like a lot, actually.
After messing with the gas pump a bit (you’ve never actually filled a car with gas before, go figure), you sit by and wait for it to fill up. You figure you might as well get a full tank, with how much driving you have left.
Your heart begins to race as you watch the price tick up and up. It shuts off automatically, and you go inside to pay. Sure enough, just this tank of gas is more than half your money so far. You’d definitely run out before you got anywhere close to New York. Hell, you probably can’t make it through the rest of Louisiana.
You get back in the truck and lean against the steering wheel. You don't know what to do. You don't want to go back, but you can hardly go any farther, and you can’t stay here.
It’s almost 5 AM. The sun will rise soon. He’ll wake up and realize you left with his truck, and if shit goes really wrong, he’ll start looking for you. You doubt he’d call the cops or anything, but it's almost scarier that way.
Unless…
It’d be about a 3 hour drive back, 4 if traffic gets really busy with people leaving for work. Bro’s sleeping habits have never been consistent for shit. Who’s to say he won't still be asleep in that time? Maybe you could slip back in and act like nothing happened.
You let out a couple shaky breaths. You do not want to go back. You really, seriously cannot go back. But what choice do you have? Unless you want to lie about your age and offer to suck the dick of any trucker that passes through– which you don’t.
You’re exhausted. If you’re going to turn around, you’d need to do it now, to give Bro less of a chance of waking up before you get back.
You grab one of the CDs in the truck and break it in half, just to do something with your hands. You’re pretty sure it was a shitty local DJ anyway, nothing he’d actually care about. You don’t feel any better about anything.
You push your shades up to dig the heels of your palms in your eyes and let out a big groan. You have to go back. There’s no way past this.
Maybe he was right. You can’t do this alone, so who says you can do anything yourself? There’s a reason he kept you under his grip instead of leaving you out on the streets. There’s something you have to be missing. And you risked throwing this all away for what? A taste of independence? Control? This is what happens when you get those. You’re at a bumfuck gas station in Louisiana, in a truck you can barely drive, with 50 bucks to your name.
You put your hands back on the wheel and take a deep breath. You’re going back.
The sun rises as you make the drive, covering the world in a warm glow. It’d be beautiful in any other drive but the one you’re on now.
You drive a bit too fast going back, trying to beat out Bro waking up. You’re getting slightly nauseous, and you can’t tell if it’s carsickness or fear. It doesn’t matter either way. You’re doing the right thing.
And if you hoped, just a bit, that you’d crash or drive off the ramp, and that they wouldn't be able to identify your body in the burning wreckage, you’d keep it to yourself. If your hands shook on the wheel, tempting you to swerve off, to take matters into your own hands, you wouldn't dwell on that. You can’t get an exit like that. You’ve got to face the consequences of being reckless and impulsive as they come.
You get off the highway at the exit back into Houston. It’s halfway past 7 or so, and it’s already pretty hot out. The sunset glow has been replaced by the typical glow of the sun and heat.
It’s closer to 8 when you pull the truck into the apartment complex’s parking lot, into the same spot it was in before. It’s a shitty park job, you can tell that much, but you don't care to fix it. You get out of the truck, trying not to throw up, and glance up.
It’s the tallest complex around by a long shot, and that’s saying something. It reaches far into the sky, covering up the sun from the angle you’re standing– draping it in shadow like a comic villain’s lair. You feel like you’re going to collapse.
You don’t. Instead, you go inside and take the elevator to the second highest floor. You live on the highest, but your Bro’s always been weird about taking the elevator, so you’ve gotten into the habit of taking the last staircase up just to be safe.
Your heart nearly beats out of your chest as you approach the apartment. You don’t have a key. Bro never gave you one, but even if he had, you wouldn’t have brought it with you.
It doesn’t matter. The door is cracked open. You made sure you closed it– you remember having to make it as quiet as possible so it wouldn’t wake him up.
He’s waiting for you. He knew you left, and he knew you’d come back. Your shaky hands push the door the rest of the way open.
The apartment is in disarray– worse than usual. Even more of Bro’s stuff is strewn around, whether out of some petty grudge or frustration you don’t know. You spot a couple things from your room in the clutter. He got into your stuff again.
Bro sits at his desk, his head swiveling in your direction as soon as the door is fully open. The puppets around him seem to focus their beady plastic eyes on you as well.
The door creaks a bit as you close it. You swallow.
DAVE: hey
BRO: whered you go.
DAVE: oh you know
DAVE: out and about
BRO: for several hours.
BRO: with my truck.
DAVE: mhm
DAVE: im tired im going to my room
You start to walk towards the hallway and he stands up.
BRO: what were you trying to accomplish with this.
DAVE: …
BRO: where did you think you could go.
BRO: anywhere but here huh.
You can’t come up with anything to say, so you force a shrug instead.
DAVE: m sorry
Bro starts walking towards you. Your shoulders tighten in preparation.
He wraps his arms around you. Yours stay half-limp at your sides. He squeezes tightly. He’s got half a foot of height on you at least, and his arms are toned. He could easily crush you with a bit more force. You’re small. This isn’t the kind of Warm Fatherly Embrace that John seems to get regularly. You don’t know if he’ll ever let you go.
BRO: dont ever pull a stunt like this again.
He whispers.
DAVE: i wont
DAVE: sorry
He sells his truck later that day, saying he can walk anywhere he’s really got to be in the city. You should’ve seen this coming.
You aren’t ever going to get away.