My entire childhood was spent waiting for a bus

He charged down the steps. I knew he was drunk. I slammed the door to the furnace room and threw my weight against it like I’d seen women do in horror movies. But I was thrown between the door and the wall instantly. He opened the door and heaved his weight against it again and again until I thought I was going to die, my hand was being crushed, but I didn’t know it then. It would turn purple and big.
When he stopped, I was against the wall; sure I had become a part of it. He looked at me. He looked at me like he could do anything. I screamed until spit came out in a thin gurgle.
But he slapped me. I don’t know what happened then.
I walked to Ashley’s house holding my sides. I can’t remember if I called her and asked if I could come. Because I would never go anywhere without asking first, even now.
The streets I had ridden my bike down since I was 8, became unfamiliar. I was sure he was driving after me. It seems stupid now, and melodramatic, but I thought he may have grabbed a shotgun he used for hunting. I’d be an easy target on the long lines of cement.
I kept wishing someone would come out of their house and ask me what was wrong. I was always so afraid of attracting attention, but never realized how hard it was to get it. My neck was broken, churning to watch behind me. Every truck was his.
When I got to Ashley’s we sat on her sofa. Her mom was never around. Ashley was watching the OC and I said, “my dad hit me”. She nodded and looked back at the TV. She gave me a blanket but it was May. We watched the commercials. I was never more grateful for anyone’s silence.