Drunken Blizzards

Her head presses against cool glass, stomach still turning. She doesn’t know why, but one of his favorite games is scaring them. Too many drinks and too late in the night, he pulled the three girls from the party. He woke her violent from her already restless sleep. Too many drinks and a loud, showy repeat of a previous fight. All eyes on him. And him, voice blasting across the party. And mama pulls at his wrist, but he can’t even feel her there. He’s all name calling and feet stomping. Broken bottles and cards strewn across the floor. And she’s all forced laughs, begging, and pleading. Because nothing is wrong. And none of them have ever seen a storm. And nothing is wrong. And he yanks them all past the whispers and pushes them into the car. And too many people watch from the driveway as the car screeches away into the night. Too many drinks, and too cold a night, and he purposefully throws the car in dizzying, lurching circles. Snowbanks dislodge and explode outside her window as the tires tread them, too quick. And she mustn’t cry. Her mama is crying. Her sister is crying. But she mustn’t cry. If she doesn’t cry, the storm will never come. And so she lets the glass ease her turning stomach. And when he asks if she thinks it’s funny, she stares straight into his eyes, silent, wordless. And he laughs like they’re party to a private joke. And she rests her head back against the glass. And she watches the snow rise and fall again like it’s been given a second chance to hit the ground. And she thinks how life is always just repeating. Pounding, angry snowfalls turning to dirty piles, too heavy to hold. And her mama is crying. And her sister is crying. And he’s still shouting and laughing. Great, joyous cries whooping into the bright, white night. And a little prick of her fear slips away as she realizes there’s no stopping the storms. And she can’t help but to laugh at the joke as well.