Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

08 | U-Turn

JUEVES
8:39 PM

Dahlia Gray

I crisscross my legs on the bed, the MacBook propped open before me at an odd angle. A bag of Venezuelan fried plantain chips sits off on the side, which I would occasionally take a chip from to snack on.

I straighten myself up from leaning lazily against the bed frame, trying hard to measure all my focus onto the application in front of me. With the help of Presley's guidance—to which I hold dear in my heart—I found the website to SAINT Laboratories Internship and I met all the requirements they listed. The only thing left was the worst part: the application.

I finish most of the boxes, listing all the things I could answer in a blink of an eye: my name, my address, my gender and my education levels. There wasn't much for the resume part—asking for my past experiences—and for that, I was entirely grateful. This is going to be my first job I'll apply for. It's going to all or nothing.

I haven't read the benefits too much into detail because I'm afraid that, if I don't get in, I'll be missing all the good things they'll offer. It's better to hold still and wait for the good news first.

There's also a bit of hesitation to click that save button. It's my mom.

I know I always dream about it—leaving this city and going very far away—but when I'm actually facing it, with the possibility coming close to my fingertips, I feel a sense of dread.

My mother, who've been by my side for as long as I can remember, who loves me, and cares for me and does everything she can to give me what I need—the thought of leaving her stings my heart. It makes me afraid, and I'm terrified of the possibility of her being alone, with no one by her side other than my father.

I hear the door slam downstairs, causing the whole house to shake. Footsteps enter into the house in hefty steps, hitting the floor with aggression. I could pinpoint exactly who it was: my father.

"¡Dahlia no me ama! ¡Ella no quiere tener nada que ver conmigo!" Dahlia doesn't love me! She doesn't want anything to do with me! I hear my father scream, his voice echoing through the paper-thin walls and finding its way past the slit of my closed bedroom door. "¡Le enseñaste a desobedecerme!" You taught her to disobey me!

"Clayton," the delicacy of my mother's voice is a complete contrast to my father's. I slide off my bed, walking towards the door as I crack it open. I slip onto the floor, crawling towards the hallway. "Ella es joven. Ella todavía está tratando de acostumbrarse a ti—" She's young. She's still trying to get used to you—

"¡Han pasado cuatro años!" It's been four years! He screams, cutting my mother off mid-sentence. I wince. "He estado en casa por cuatro años. ¿Si ella no se ha acostumbrado a mi todavía, ¿cuándo lo hará?" I have been home for four years. If she still hasn't warmed up to me, when will she ever?

When you change. I thought ruefully, not submitting my words into existence.

I hear my mother pause before rebuttal, the heavy huffs of my father signifying his intense anger at the situation. He's mad at me—at my mother. He's always upset about something, pointing his fingers to any one of us, any chance he gets.

He never once considered he was the problem.

"Ella siempre está en su habitación. Ella siempre me ignora. Tengo que repetirme solo para obtener una respuesta de ella. ¡Lo estoy intentando, lo estoy, y ella no está haciendo nada!" She is always in her room. She always ignores me. I have to repeat myself just to get an answer from her. I am trying, I am, and she is not doing anything!