Bliss

one

Car parks are the devil's spawn. Especially if they belong to an airport.

Trust me, I'm well aware of how ridiculous I must sound. But, if I'm certain of anything in this life, it's that Satan played a role in creating the airport car park. He had to. God is too kind to inflict such pain. At least, that's what I choose to believe. Maybe my understanding of good and evil is slightly skewed; perhaps the lines are far more blurred. Either way, I'm convinced that airport car parks were created to drive us to insanity.

Why?

Well, the answer is simple. Every year, we take off. The sky becomes our domain, and we drift towards the promise of a hotter climate and zero responsibility. And, every year, just before we cut through the clouds and glide above the white sea, my parents descend into a vicious argument with thousands of parked cars acting as witnesses to their rage.

For years I've wondered if it's the airport car park or the simple act of parking that sends their thinly veiled jabs nuclear. I considered my options, weighing up countless experiences and comparing the blowback until I reached a conclusion. A rash conclusion, but a conclusion nonetheless.

It's the car park, not the parking, that causes their voices to raise and foreheads to crumple as they sling insults between the two front seats. If it were merely the parking, this argument would be a staple of every journey. Freaking Westfield would be privy to all their darkest moments. But it only happens when we arrive at the airport. They shout and scream until we come to a jerky stop in a tight spot, and all is forgiven—okay, half forgiven.

Mum's side-eying Dad; he's ignoring her. I've been roped into helping with the luggage, not that I mind. It's easier to deal with Dad and his gruff mumbles than Mum and her shrill demands.

Next year, I'm travelling with Paula and Henry. Paula offered to pick me up weeks ago, but I was the fool who muttered something about betrayal and insisted I'd be fine in the back of the family car. Now there's another option, and my guilt is scorched, I can safely say I'm never turning it down again.

"Is that everything?" Mum asks once we squeeze the suitcases down the narrow aisle between our car and the next.

"Yes, Natalie," Dad mutters. His annoyance whips the otherwise still air into a frenzy. "That's everything."

"You don't have to be so harsh." She shakes her head, almost in anger, but not entirely, before snatching her suitcase from Dad's grasp and striding towards the bus stop.

Oh, and that's another thing about airport car parks—the bus stop. I'm not a particularly impatient person, but there's only so much waiting you can do, and airports test your limits. They're all queues and wasted hours. Why add another long wait to the journey by making the car park so bloody far away? Not to mention, the bus itself simply trundles along, moving without any real sense of purpose.

Actually, I take that back. The bus can trundle all it likes, for if it wasn't for its trundling, we would've missed it entirely. But just as we make it, it pulls up, and the doors stagger open.

I mutter a subdued hallelujah and struggle onto the bus behind my parents. Dad ushers us towards a set of seats at the back while he places the suitcases on the storage racks before bounding down the aisle to join us. He collapses beside me and purposefully turns away from Mum. She sniffs and smiles at me instead.

"Paula and Henry are inside," she says, clutching her bag to her stomach like her life depends on it.

"How do you know?" I'd rather not have this conversation. It's not even meant for me, but Dad's being Dad, and if I ignore her, the holiday will start with a bang. And not the kind you get excited about either.