microwavelength (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
microwavelength) wrote2009-10-04 12:00 am
microwavelength) wrote2009-10-04 12:00 am
The trip to New York
((ficlet for a community on how Luke ended up in New York City))
Mom hasn't said a fucking word in two hours. If it wasn't for the constant hum of the engine of the station wagon each time we coast to a red light it would be dead silent in here. I really do think that she's stopped breathing, but I can't look at her. I refuse.
The tunnel from New Jersey into New York City is packed. We're at an almost stand still, and mom suddenly throws on the radio to calm her nerves or maybe to put mine at ease. She's probably wondering why I haven't asked her any questions yet. It's not like I don't know what's happening. Hell, the moment she busted down my door this morning and told me to pack my shit I knew I'd be going on a one way trip.
I hate it when she cries. As we burst into the light, I can see that her face is wet out of the corner of my eye. Just like she had been last night when she came to pick me up from juvie again. I've been there three times. It's not my fault I have an unfair advantage in fights. Or that it's so much fun to hurt people that piss me the fuck off. Turning, I decide that it's better not to think about this right now. Why does she get to cry when she's going to throw me away and forget I exist? My eyes are on the city, lifting towards the tops of buildings obscured by the smog of approaching twilight.
It's dark when the car finally stops. Mom doesn't offer to help me with my bags. "He's on the third floor," her shaking voice reminds me, and I nod, pulling my suitcase out of the backseat without a word.
I'm not going tell her that I love her, even if I do. I don't say that I'm scared of my old man or of this neighborhood. Even though I am.
She doesn't wave as she drives off and I realize, finally, that I truly am alone. I can't see the stars in New York like I could in the suburbs of Newark. Down the block, a car backfires. Maybe it's a gun. I don't stick around to find out, scrambling up the steps.
Mom hasn't said a fucking word in two hours. If it wasn't for the constant hum of the engine of the station wagon each time we coast to a red light it would be dead silent in here. I really do think that she's stopped breathing, but I can't look at her. I refuse.
The tunnel from New Jersey into New York City is packed. We're at an almost stand still, and mom suddenly throws on the radio to calm her nerves or maybe to put mine at ease. She's probably wondering why I haven't asked her any questions yet. It's not like I don't know what's happening. Hell, the moment she busted down my door this morning and told me to pack my shit I knew I'd be going on a one way trip.
I hate it when she cries. As we burst into the light, I can see that her face is wet out of the corner of my eye. Just like she had been last night when she came to pick me up from juvie again. I've been there three times. It's not my fault I have an unfair advantage in fights. Or that it's so much fun to hurt people that piss me the fuck off. Turning, I decide that it's better not to think about this right now. Why does she get to cry when she's going to throw me away and forget I exist? My eyes are on the city, lifting towards the tops of buildings obscured by the smog of approaching twilight.
It's dark when the car finally stops. Mom doesn't offer to help me with my bags. "He's on the third floor," her shaking voice reminds me, and I nod, pulling my suitcase out of the backseat without a word.
I'm not going tell her that I love her, even if I do. I don't say that I'm scared of my old man or of this neighborhood. Even though I am.
She doesn't wave as she drives off and I realize, finally, that I truly am alone. I can't see the stars in New York like I could in the suburbs of Newark. Down the block, a car backfires. Maybe it's a gun. I don't stick around to find out, scrambling up the steps.