Driving Volume II by Yohanna Ostrowski (pg

Driving Volume II

By Yohanna Ostrowski

The knuckles on my left hand were white as I held onto the steering wheel for dear life. My right hand hunted savagely through the glove compartment in search of a pack of cigarettes that I was slowly starting to realize were not there.

“C’mon,” I mumbled to myself, speaking around the cigarette that I already held between my teeth. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon.” The only thing my hand made contact with was empty candy wrappers followed by old receipts and occasionally a used tissue until I finally accepted the cruelty and unfairness of the world and abandoned my search.

“Shit!” I spat aloud, slamming the glove compartment closed. The sound of my frustration was enough to wake my rottweiler, Laika, who had been napping peacefully in the passenger seat. She opened her eyes and raised her head from her crossed front paws to look at me curiously, wondering what could have been so important as to disturb her slumber.

“My bad, Laika,” I soothed, giving the dog a scratch behind the ear. “You can go back to sleep now bud. The subs are still a long way away.” Some dogs make you think that they’re incredibly intelligent, and Laika was one of them. As if on command with my words, she rested her head back on her paws and closed her eyes again.

“Good girl,” I muttered to myself, finally getting both hands back on the wheel and my full attention focused on the barren road in front of me. “I wish I could nap, but instead we’re visiting the people who taught me that naps are for the weak and those that aren’t trying to make it far in this world.” I blew out my cigarette smoke in a light sigh. I hated talking about my family. They were the worst. Running away from home was the best decision I had ever made, but man did it make reunions awkward.

I humoured myself by wondering if they would recognize me now. My hair, dyed black and cut short into a buzz cut, would be unfamiliar to them, and every piercing and tattoo would be a new source of shame to be discussed behind closed doors when I was gone. I was the family's Prodigal Son, and who was to be blamed for it? Me for becoming this way, or them for making me this way? I would let myself contemplate it over the long car ride to the outskirts of the city, with my only friend sitting beside me on a trip to visit the family that had pushed me into being the disappointment I was.