Prepared Confrontation

I can't move. The whole week I have been psyching myself for this moment, arriving at your house and knocking on the door. I had big plans for what I was going to say; why did you leave? Why did you stop talking to me? Am I still your daughter? You used to be my daddy, we were so close, how could you ignore that? How could you do that to me? Do you ever think of me? Can you even remember the memories that come floating into my head at inopportune moments every day? I'll pop out to get milk and have a sudden flashback to you whizzing me down the supermarket aisles in the shopping trolley, or to the time we had a flour fight when we were supposed to be baking a cake for Mother's Day. I'll be watering plants in the garden and suddenly I'll remember you dragging my new sledge out of the shed, and how we laughed, and how rosy your cheeks were as we ran up the snowy hill together. Do you ever remember me?

I have so much to say, but the words are a jumbling chaos in my head and my hands are stuck to the steering wheel like it's made of ice. I've been further than this before. Last time, I strode all the way to the front door before the waves of self-doubt, of anger, of hatred and of hurt came crashing down around my ears. I just want to understand, to piece the jigsaw of my life together and see it objectively. I want to move on. I want my thoughts to myself instead of having them run off to you every time the lights turn off.

I look down at my hands on the wheel, white-knuckles under cracked skin. The mole on my wrist that matches yours. I force myself to loosen my grip, and then to put my hands on my lap. I lift my head and turn slowly to the right, to see your house through the slowly steaming window. Uncut grass. No flowers. A white plastic door with a dark curtain blocking the window from the other side. The path and door are to the right of the unkempt garden, and a small brick wall with moss growing on it separates the path from the house next to it. I look back down to the inside of my car door, running my finger along the black plastic. I trace the red nub that would lock me in, and follow the line along to the pointed edge of the handle, pressing my thumb into the rounded point a few times. I stretch out my fingers then wrap them under the handle and pull. The door is open now, and I find the energy to unclip my seatbelt and leave the car. The cold air chills my spine and I close the door and step forward, my head raging with thoughts my tongue can't articulate. Two steps, three. I am suddenly very conscious of my face; my eyebrows are so tense that my temples are starting to throb. I raise them in mock surprise to loosen my face, and that is the exact moment that the door opens and I see you for the first time in three years.

A Big, Dramatic Storm Out

Kelly stamped through the snow and suppressed a wail of frustration that the wheely suitcase was not making for a suitably dramatic exit as she dragged it after her with both hands through the fresh and thick snow, fully aware that she was being watched with an infuriating amusement from the window of the first floor apartment she had just left.

Reaching the corner at last, she kicked at the build up of snow that was hindering any further dragging of the suitcase, readjusted her hat (which, she realised now, had probably been bobbling along hilariously as she had attempted to storm down the street, ruining even further the image of strength and independence she had been trying to portray) and, unable to resist, took a last glance at the window of the house she had just left. Empty. He hadn't even bothered to watch her walk away. She pictured him sighing as she slammed the front door and returning immediately to his video game. What a bastard. With a much too high-pitched "hmph!" she flicked her hair from her face and flounced around the corner, still attempting to look proud and strong, although painfully aware that her daring strike for independence looked from the outside more like a pathetic street tantrum.

Finally around the corner and out of sight of the window, Kelly found herself a little lost as to what to do next. The suitcase she was dragging behind her contained enough underwear for two weeks, but only one change of clothes and no pyjamas or toiletries whatsoever. She had grabbed her passport before she left, as if she had been so hurt and offended that her only option was to leave the country, and luckily she had remembered her purse with all her bank cards and travel pass. Something niggled in the back of her mind as she looked down the street trying to decide what to do next. She had forgotten something more important than pyjamas and toothpaste: her phone was still charging by the bed. She had no way of contacting anybody, no way of accessing the internet, and no GPS. She swore under her breath, a small cloud puffing from her mouth as her warm breath hit the cold air. There was no way she was going back for it, not after the embarrassment of such a melodramatic exit. She had no choice but to carry on without it, dragging her suitcase along with less fervour now as she trudged towards the bus stop. She felt like a child running away from home: the sort of runaway who packed two Kit Kats and hid in the park until sunset before returning, cold and hungry, to a family who hadn't even realised she'd gone.

She boarded the first bus that pulled up and sat by the door, hugging her arms to her chest and feeling altogether stupid. This wasn't the first time she'd stormed out after an argument, but it was the first time she'd taken a suitcase with her.