A while ago, I resolved myself to a few rules of driving. Rule number one was that I only drive when necessary. Number two was that I never drink and drive under any circumstances. Rule number three was that I never drive with a loved one in the car. Sitting in my Ford with Katya next to me, unable to drive in her state, I had two choices.

Try to convince her to walk or break rule three.

Looking at my distressed infatuation, I could see there was no way I would convince her to walk. I had to break my own rule. Sitting, thinking, trying to summon the strength to start the car, I tried in vain to put all thoughts out of my head and just go, though my Overthinking brain wouldn’t allow it. I didn’t even know why I so hated and feared driving. It was just something within me. I couldn’t escape myself and as long as we were here, Katya couldn’t escape herself either. Something had to be done.

Do it Owen, I summoned. Do it. Do it Do it Do it Do it Do it. Self-invoked pressure. Suddenly I was reversing out of the driveway and turning onto the road. Suddenly we were off, away, and I turned the radio up full volume to fight my thoughts and hopefully drown out the strange feeling of imminent danger I’d felt the second I started the engine. Katya turned to me shocked, still wet with tears. Though I’d fixed my eyes on the road, I couldn’t help but see her see me with a look of complete bewilderment. As if her emotions hadn’t been through enough for one day.

“Sorry.” I called over the music, focusing on the world ahead of me. “I need this.” I said, likely making no sense to her already frazzled mind. She just turned and faced away, likely still absorbed in her own issues. At any other time I would have talked to her, tried to soothe her – but not now. Now all I could do was focus myself on avoiding thought and denying inner feeling. The blaring radio aided this, bland pop songs and ads so loud they were thinking for me. Buy car insurance, watch the news at eleven, bling bling. Commercial radio – likely set on that channel by Damo last time her borrowed my car. He always borrows it as he doesn’t have one and I rarely use mine.

The road passing under me, mind blocked by noise, I managed to make it to Katya’s house. Pulling up at the side of it, I finally turned the noise down and looked to Katya. When she faced me I was shocked. Her face was paler than usual. Even in the night dark I could see it. The slightly protruding moon illuminated her just enough for me to see the distress and tear-soaked cheeks. Had she been crying for the whole drive? An instant rush of guilt forced its way into my veins and through my bloodstream. Wrapped up in my own trappings, I’d shut myself away from her under a blanket of noise when she needed me. I felt like saying sorry, but stopped myself before I did. Sorrow was not going to become a theme in this relationship. Instead I just opened my door. Before I got out, I turned to see her in the light, to reaffirm what I already knew. Perhaps to drill my guilt home and hurt myself more, so I’d never make the same mistake again. She was looking away, though still I saw the paleness. The feelings within me amplified and I was lost. I exited the vehicle and went to Katya’s door, opening it for her. Slowly she got out and temperamentally she walked to the door. Sliding her key and opening it, she took one step in before turning and closing off the doorway slightly, blocking my entry. Her teary face implored me.

“Is it okay with you if I want to be alone for a while?”

She was miserable and I wanted to be there to comfort, but I wasn’t going to force my presence upon her.

“If that’s what you want.” I said and moved in a little to be closer. Her eyes wet with a tale of heartbreak, she nodded and allowed me to kiss her goodbye on the cheek. Slowly I made my way to my car. More driving. As I approached it, the barrage of events that had transpired since we’d decided to leave Melbourne hit me and I was suddenly exhausted.

I was almost stumbling from drowsiness as I neared my door. In my wallet was my key and soon enough I was inside, walking down the hall, craving bed and sleep. Just as I got to my bedroom door, a call from the lounge room stopped me.

“So you decided to come back.” His raw, drunken voice called sarcastically from the couch. I was instantly brought out of my drowsy state, awoken by disdain. Something brought me into the lounge room, straight into confrontation. Normally I just go away and shut him out. I can’t explain why I didn’t this time. It was as if I wanted to confront him. So much anger built inside that needed to be expressed.

He was watching television. Some random show. This just served to heighten the disgust I felt at the sight of the many beer cans on the coffee table in front of him. I hate watching television just for the sake of watching television and the sight of my Dad getting drunk has always bothered me, I think. This coupled with the anger I had bottled up toward him owned me at that moment. His eyes were glazed and his speech inconsistent when he turned to face me and spoke.

“Where the fuck have you been?” I tried to answer but was interrupted. “You think you can just come and go as you please?” He was angry and on his feet within seconds, nearing me, eyeing me madly. “This has been going on far too long now. You’ve been treating me like shit for too long and I’m not going to stand for it any more. You either start treating me with respect or you can get the fuck out of this house and stay out.” He was serious. I’d never heard him speak like this before. Ever. Unbridled anger was forcing its way through my body, up and into my mouth – coming out in unrepentant words. Whether I meant them or not I didn’t know. They’d been hiding inside me for quite a time and I knew they would hurt him.

“It’s your fault she’s gone!” I yelled at him and it hit like a bullet. He stepped back, silent, mouth open. “It’s your fucking fault!” I repeated louder and then he exploded.

“Shut up!” He yelled bitterly, shaking his head as he approached and grabbed me violently. “You get the fuck out!” He yelled wildly, his saliva hitting my face before he threw me backwards forcefully. I landed hard on my spine and pain shot through me. Slowly I got to my feet, backing away from him. He picked up an empty beer can and piffed it at me. “Get the fuck out of my house you little cunt! I never want to see your face again!”

Hating him more than ever, my anger speaking for me, I screamed back at him “Fine!” and stormed into my bedroom, slamming and locking my door behind me. I found a bag and started piling clothes into it. I’ll leave, I thought. I’ll go crash at Damo’s. Anywhere but here. With anyone but Dad. As I loaded stuff into my bag, the exhaustion again caught up with me. I was suddenly overrun. I fell to my bed clumsily and before I’d touched the mattress I was unconscious.

Blurs flashed past me. Rapid-fire movements and conversations I’d forget the moment I’d finished them. Visions of Salinger, Damo’s house and various locations I’d never been to but felt eerily familiar to me flew through my mind. All of them gone when I was woken by my phone ringing.

My eyes opened, the noise rang in my ears and my head felt weird. I hadn’t been sleeping, I’d collapsed. Everything had gotten too much for me and I’d fainted. It happens fairly regularly nowadays. All the time it seemed like these episodes were coupled with bizarre dreams that I could barely recall. I only ever knew them in flashes and could never make sense of them. Awake, sore-headed, the phone in my room rang. Again it was under a pile of garbage. Again I found it and answered.

“Hello?”

Silence for a moment, then heavy breathing.

“Hello?” I repeated agitatedly.

“Owen…” Katya’s voice, soft and sad. I instantly changed my demeanor.

“Katya… Hi.” Suddenly I heard choked tears on the other side of the line. Shit. “What’s wrong?” I asked hastily, confused. Her teary response came.

“Come over…” a sob and then “I need you to come over.”

I’ll be there as quick as I can.” I said. “Just hang on.” And then I turned off the phone and, forgetting all my problems, left the house hurriedly, leaving my bag and stuff there. Dad was not around to push any words on me as I exited. Quickly I went to the car. Unlock, open, drive. Suddenly breaking my driving rules wasn’t an important issue for me. The only issue was Katya and whether she was all right. Within a blink I was at her house, banging on her door. “Katya, it’s me. I’m here.” I exclaimed loudly. After several seconds that could have been hours the door opened for me. Standing in the doorway of a completely dark house was Katya. She leapt on to me, wrapping her arms around tighter than they’d ever been before. I accepted her embrace and held her tightly as well.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. She didn’t answer. She just took my hand and led me inside. It wasn’t until she turned on the light in her painting room that I realised the problem. Illuminated, surrounded by beauty and colour, the saddest sight of my life appeared in black and ghostly white. Katya’s face paler than it even was earlier and her left eye swelled, black. She’d been hit.

Confusion, rage, sadness and heartache. I couldn’t speak.

“It was Steven.” She finally said, still in tears, though fighting them. Thoughts raced through my head but I couldn’t articulate them. I was involuntarily frozen by overwhelming emotions. “He came over an hour ago.”

Katya proceeded to tell me everything, and with each word she said my anger grew. Silently I seethed, hearing her story.

Apparently he’d gotten home to a note from his wife, Katya’s mother. The note was a goodbye. She had thought about what Katya had told her and rang his work, then his mobile and finally the truth had dawned her. She knew what Katya said had been right and she had the strength to leave. He came home to the note and in it was an explanation of Katya’s revelation. He’d gone nuts. He showed up at Katya’s doorstep, enraged, shoving the note in her face. He’d yelled and screamed at her about how she’d ruined his life and how everything was her fault. Then he hit her. A bare-knuckled punch to the face of his teenage daughter. His fist mashing against her flesh and bruising her skin. After realizing what he’d done he freaked out and left. Back home, probably.

When her story finished I’d dealt with my emotions. They were all still there, but there was one at the forefront; revenge.

“I’ll fucking kill him.” I told her and I wasn’t lying. I turned and started away with full intent on going to the house and hurting him. Making him pay. Katya’s hand stopped me, grabbing my arm. I faced her and saw her distraught face.

“Don’t.” She said. “Don’t go. I need you here.” Her distress angered me more, but I was bound by responsibility. I had to stay there for her. Hugging her tightly, thoughts of revenge were in my mind but I pushed them to the backburner for the moment. I pushed them away and acted to soothe her.

She led me to her bedroom. I don’t know why. On the walls were various drawings and posters. She had an incredibly enviable gallery of pictures. Posters of Kyuss, Pink Floyd, Queens of the Stone Age. All her favourite bands. All my favourite bands. Pictures and magazine clippings of bands I grew up listening to. Led Zeppelin, Jefferson – music my mother used to play to me as a child.

In the room was also a dresser drawer, a cupboard, a bedside table and her guitar in its stand. She picked the steel-stringed instrument up and handed it to me. She sat on her bed which was pushed right against a wall.

“Play something for me.” She said. I’d never played guitar in front of her before. I didn’t even remember telling her I knew how to play guitar. Still, it was in my hands. So I sat down beside her on the bed. As she rested backwards, stretching out, I began strumming. Playing a song I’d written a few months ago, when my girlfriend left Victoria with her parents. When my world fell apart and I was certain that life couldn’t get any worse. I strummed that instrument and sung. Next to Sara and my mother, Katya was the only person I’d ever felt comfortable enough to sing for.