Calloused thumbs slid across the top of a black, gas-station-bought lighter, luring out a tall flame. A work-worn hand singed the tip of a cigarette and threw the lighter into a shabby glove box in a run-down pick-up truck. He blew smoke in my direction and instructed me to drive.
I pushed the loose strands of dirt-brown hair behind my ears and turned the key in the ignition, the truck groaning in protest to the evil residing in its bed.
"Listen here, darlin'," he interrupted my internal panic with his rusty southern accent and placed a hand on my shoulder tenderly. "You and me, we're in this together now. Out here, we only got each other. So you need to do as I say, if you don't wanna end up in the bed of the truck with your godforsaken mother, that is. Are we understood?"
I bit my quivering lip and nodded in response to his words.
"Yessir." I breathed out.
"Now drive, kid. We got a long ways ahead of us."
I hit the gas and the truck lurched forward into the night, my hope for the future reflecting in the dim glow of the truck's headlights.
There wasn't much light ahead.
My mother's singed corpse was only the beginning of a never-ending inferno, fueled by revenge.
YOU ARE READING
Academy Of American Bullshit
ŞiirCollection of poetry, parts of short stories, and the occasional rant written by an artist who is angrier than she'd like to admit.
