It was also the last time I brought friends over.
“What the fuck are you looking at?” Dad spits.
A monster.
I imagine my fan breaking—some faulty wire would be the cause—and it slams on his head so hard his skull cracks and blood spools out.
But that isn’t life, and I’m not that lucky.
“What brand?” I ask.
“You know what kind of fucking beer. Don’t be a smart arse!” He steps into my room, but before he can come closer, I shuffle out of bed and pick up the coins he threw at me. He chuckles darkly as he leaves the room.
I close the door for a moment to dress. I shrug on my favourite shirt. The front has the logo of my favourite band, Imagine Dragons, and the back has a list of their names.
Then, as I grab my phone, I take out the earphones from the second drawer before slipping on my thongs.
When I leave my room, Dad enters the living area. He slumps in his recliner, a gargled, throaty laugh coming from him as he watches a sitcom.
Away from him, Mum is in the kitchen, an ice pack on her cheek. Dark brown eyes quickly look away from me, and she turns to hide her face.
I do the same, and act as if I didn’t hear what happened ten minutes ago. It’s easier that way. Less trouble, as I leave the house like a ghost.
2
THE “SERVO”
It’s dark outside.Midnight, or at least close to it—but it doesn’t really matter considering where I am going; they’re open twenty-four hours.
The stars are out, clear of any dusty clouds, and the frigid night breeze relaxes me enough to listen to music. I scroll through my playlist until I find a song I can listen to on repeat: “Believer” by Imagine Dragons.
As I walk down the street, cars drive past with their headlights glaring, piercing my vision while casting silver light on the tall trees, gardens, and driveways. The shadow of mine grows, turning into a giant. It grows taller and taller until the car passes me, and then the giant version of me plummets, hiding within and lying dormant.
The service station, or what everyone calls “the servo”, is near my home. The most convenient place to indulge in his addiction, as well as my short-term escape. The service station lights up like a beacon on a stormy night out at sea.
There’s a white Toyota Corolla parked out front. Shiny—a new model. The same car I’ve seen in the school car park.
Some days, I imagined myself inside, fiddling with its large touchscreen display and listening to the quiet hum as it rumbled to life. And if it got too much at home, I would curl up in the back seat and sleep there for the night.
The automatic doors to the service station open as I enter. Dad’s beer is at the back, in one row of the fridge section. As I walk past the second aisle, someone I recognise catches my eye. Conner stares at the various flavours of chips with full concentration. He stares as if he wants any packet of chips to jump out of the rack because he doesn’t want to choose.
I take another step when a sharp pain hits my arm. I step away from the rack filled with packets of lollies and hiss as I grab my arm. I cradle the redness throbbing there and look to Conner. He stares at me.
I stare at him.
Silence. An awkward silence plagues us.
Suddenly, he grabs the bag of chicken chips and makes his way towards me. Lowering my gaze, I take a step away and turn my attention to the beer. As I make my way towards it, Conner’s fleeting steps move in the other direction.
I know what I want, but I look like I don’t while I put the song on mute. The cash register pops, and Conner murmurs, “Thank you.”
Opening the fridge, I grab the six-pack, close the door, and make my way to James (the night worker). He says nothing, only giving a tight smile as I place the beer on the counter.
James places it in a flimsy plastic bag, sneakily slipping a Snickers bar inside. My smile strains on my face, not fully clicking, but enough to keep questions at bay.
As I leave the service station, my stomach double-knots. Conner stands outside the door of his car with his cigarette pressed between his fingers. On the other side of his car, two people were making their way towards me. They’re dressed inblack and blue, and the two men have guns strapped to the buckles around their waists.
I duck my head, hoping they don’t notice. But as we pass each other, the younger police officer stops, turns and says, “Hey.”