The Drive

Wood smoke coats my throat, so I take a sip from the tap. It's a little after 4am as I dress for work in the dark. Can't risk turning on the light or flushing the toilet because it might wake up Jim. My wedding dress, once pearly white and perfect, is discarded in the tub, a smoldering heap.

That asshole ruined my last good memory. I can't pretend he is kind anymore, won't twist my arm, choke me or leave bruises across my skin. Jim likes hurting me and he won't stop until we stop.

In minutes, I slip through the front door and the rusty hinges squeal. I tense, hold my breath and listen to see if it woke up the devil. The house is silent. Without looking back, I hurry down the porch steps to my old brown Maverick. I twist the key in the ignition and say a silent prayer under my breath, 'Please turn over, please turn over,' until I hear the engine rumble. I turn on the headlights and wipers in one slick move and roll down the gravel driveway, slow and easy—the driving version of tiptoeing.

I hear the screen door slam open and imagine Jim yelling at me from the steps, but keep myself from checking the rearview mirror because I'm 99% sure I made it up in my head. I switch on the radio and turn up the volume to distract my fight-or-flight. I've gotta stick around a little longer, stick to the plan.

The hum of the road and squeak of the wipers calms me down. The clock on the dash reads, '4:18am.'  I'm the only car on the long stretch of road that leads into town. A mile passes, then another and I drop my shoulders. I feel myself shift from meek-perpetually-scared-home-Liv to reliable-helpful-friendly-work-Liv.

I think about the stash of cash hidden inside the spare tire in my trunk. Maybe I'll use five dollars to buy a bowl of soup today as a treat? No. Gotta keep saving up for my escape. April 15th. That's when I'm leaving him.

Sirens blare and red lights flash on the horizon. I pull over to the shoulder and watch as a firetruck and an ambulance pass, then a second ambulance. When they're in the rearview, I signal for no one and accelerate onto the road. What the hell was that about?

I cough and my mouth fills with gritty phlegm. I wish I'd thought to bring a water bottle. I clear my throat and sing along to the radio,"Sometimes you're the windshield. Sometimes you're the bug..."

Rain splats hard against the windshield and the street shines in the beam of my headlights. God, I hate this part of the drive. Evergreens choke off the sky and black shadows soak the road in ink. There are deep gullies on both sides of the road which force me to concentrate or else I'll become the next dead driver. A month ago, a lady crashed head-on into a truck and died. The man that hit her walked away from the accident. Don't quite know how I feel about that.

I set the heat to maximum and hot, dry air blows at my face, pushing back the chill in my bones. The heater's the only thing that works in this old car, that and the radio. I try to stay awake and alert by counting down the days until I'm free. The shadow of a person crosses into the beam of my headlights and I tap the brakes. He had his thumb out like a hitchhiker. I shiver and clutch the steering wheel. As I near the spot, I see nothing. Huh? Must've been the outline of a tree. I press down on the gas pedal and speed until I reach the traffic light that marks the city boundary.

Thirty-two days.

***

The old folk's home is silent as a grave when I arrive. I store my belongings in a locker and find the list of chores the night manager left in her neat script; take out garbage; clean lobby bathroom; sweep; mop; check in with day manager; pick up paycheck. As if she had to write that last task. That money, mymoney, makes my wedding band feel a little less like a dog collar.

I reach for my cellphone and earbuds before I start in on my work and find I left them at the house. No phone? The up-side is I won't be able to receive Jim's texts during work, but the down-side is I don't have anything to keep me company; until the rest of the crew arrives at seven.