The Sun and The Moon

We drove down the highway, flying through the storm at 100 clicks. The windshield wipers were on the highest setting, but the snow was covering the window regardless. I tried to tell my dad to slow down, but I couldn't seem to open my mouth. My father yawned and turned the radio up, shaking his head.

"Wake up," he told himself, slapping one hand against the wheel. The lights of a passing vehicle illuminated the car suddenly, and then they were gone. My father blinked his eyes, rubbing the back of his hand across his face. The Eagles blasted the speakers. He yawned again, his eyes squeezing shut. Suddenly, there was a crunch as the road turned but we didn't, and he smashed forwards. His face slammed into the steering wheel, and he was whipped back against the seat as the airbag released. The windshield shattered and shards of glass stung across our bodies. Blood streaked through the air.

I sat forward, gasping. My heart pounded and I felt slightly dizzy.

"Are you okay?" The man beside me asked. I nodded.

"Just a bad dream," I whispered, looking out the window of the bus. "Do you know where we are?"

"Just outside Montreal," he said. I nodded; almost there. I leaned my face against the window, it was cool and relaxing. At the terminal, everyone herded off the bus. I zipped up my coat against the cold wind. I took my bag from the pile getting pulled off the bus and sat down on a bench. I pulled my hat out of my pocket and onto my head. I leaned back, stuffing my hands into my pockets. After about five minutes, I heard a honking. I opened my eyes and the window of a dark blue Camry rolled down.

"Very nice, How much?" a familiar voice called in a fake Borat-accent. I stood, brushing the settled snow off my legs. I threw my bag in the back of the car and climbed in the front door.

"Sorry I'm late, I meant to be here when you arrived," he said.

"That's okay. I've only been here a few minutes. The fresh air is nice after the bus," I said. Paul looked me over. I looked back, taking in his messy blonde hair, concerned eyes and slightly bigger arms.

"You look like shit, have you been sleeping?" he said. I shrugged. In truth, the most sleep I'd had in two days was just over an hour on the bus.

"You look good. Been working out?" I asked. He just shrugged, but smirked to himself.

"Thanks for picking me up," I said. "The next bus from Montreal to Saint-Luc is tomorrow morning."

"No problem, Ella," he said, "It's no big deal at all." I bit my lip, looking down at my hands.

"Have you seen him?" I asked.

"Yes, I helped him to the house before I came to get you," Paul said, gentley.

"He's there alone?" I asked.

"It'll only be for just over an hour. He said he would be fine," Paul said.

"Paul!" I exclaimed.

"Ella, he is still a grown man. There was an accident, he's hurt but he is still your father. He can manage for an hour," he said, but not without understanding. I breathed a sigh.

"I couldn't bear to lose him," I said.

"I know, baby angel." Paul squeezed my leg. I closed my eyes, feeling mildly comforted. Paul hadn't called me baby angel in well over two years. The drive didn't take long, and when we pulled up infront of my house I all but lept from the car. I burst in through the front door, snow swirling behind me.

"Dad? Daddy, where are you?" I called, not even kicking off my shoes.

"Here," he raised his arm. I ran to the other side of the couch, dropping to my knees in front of him.

"Oh, Daddy," I said, tears springing into my eyes as they absorbed the sight before me.

"Shh, I'm okay," he said, stroking my hair. He had eighteen stitches on the right side of his face, beginning on his forehead and trailing down his temple and cheek. His eye was black, and both knees broken.

"You look great," I said, my mouth full of tears. He laughed and I tried to swallow the salty taste. It was good to hear him laugh. I heard the door close and looked up. Paul stood, holding my bag. There was snow resting in his hair and on his shoulders, catching in the light.

"Paul," my father smiled, trying to sit up. I helped him, putting pillows behind his back.

"Hey," Paul nodded.

"Are you going to stay?" my father asked.

"Oh, I don't know, I should get home," Paul said.

"Please stay, I'll make soup," I said. Paul gave me a half smile and reluctantly agreed. I took my shoes off, taking my bag from him and hanging up our coats. He sat down in the armchair and my father got him caught up in the hockey game. I ducked into the kitchen, making a pot of tea.

"Daddy, drink this. It's good for you," I ordered, placing a steaming cup infront of him. I gave one to Paul as well. In the kitchen, I turned on the tap, filling up a pot of water. I suddenly felt overwhelmed, sinking down to my knees and crying. The pot overflowed, but I didn't move. Wet breaths wracked my body and my shoulders shook.