Atlas
November
My hands can't stop shaking the further we drive from my house—my home, my Wendy, my boys...
It doesn't make any sense.
I've spent the past year deliberately removing myself from them, distancing myself from my wife and sons, but now all I want to do is go home.
I want to hug my boys and tell them I'm sorry. I want to fall at my wife's feet and beg her forgiveness. I want to tell her that I love her, that I'm sorry, that I don't know why I've been feeling like this, and that I don't understand why I treated her the way I did.
I want to tell them that my entire world revolves around them.
I want to promise that I'll change, that I'll do better, but I don't even know if I can keep that promise.
I want to tell my wife that my love for her is stronger than my fear of losing her, but that would be a lie.
I want to rewind time and do everything right, but I think I'd just end up making the same mistakes all over again.
"What the hell is going on with you?" My father snaps from the driver's seat, white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel.
The words rumble from his chest like thunder, pushed out through gritted teeth. It's the same tone he used when we were kids and got in trouble.
It feels the same right now.
"Is this how I taught you to treat your family?" He continues, "To neglect them? Ignore them?"
"No," I force out, my throat tight.
"Then what the fuck were you thinking? A year. A whole goddamn year."
I shake my head, and my dad growls frustrated with me.
I'm frustrated with myself, too.
The tension in the truck grows thick until my dad pulls into the Durant Auto Body parking lot. He slams on the brakes, throws the truck into park, and turns toward me, eyes blazing.
"Get out."
I follow him around the back of the building, already knowing where he's taking me. There's a small warehouse tucked behind the shop, something he used for storage back when the place had only two bays and a desk.
Now that we have room, it's become a place for mechanics to smoke, make private phone calls, or scream after dealing with a nightmare client.
Years ago, we added a punching bag as a way to relieve some stress. The chain is rusted to hell, the bag practically falling apart at the seams, but it's still there, hanging from the ceiling.
My dad roughly unlocks the chain securing the warehouse door and gestures for me to get in. He flips on the light switch, illuminating the cold, empty room.
There are two old chairs in the corner with an overturned bucket we use as a small table, an ashtray on it.
My dad slams the door closed and points at the bag.
"Punch it," he growls.
I glance back and forth between him and the bag, fists clenching and unclenching at my sides, feeling my bones vibrate and like my skin is too tight and itchy.
"No."
"Punch it."
