WA#2: First Draft

The silence was quite aggravating. The air was so tense, it seemed as though every small movement made by either person was a move in a chess game. Watched intently. Why did she move there? Was that supposed to mean something? And it had only been an hour. Three more hours confined within the walls of the gray-green steel car loomed ominously. The dad was driving, the daughter was passengering.

The clear skies outside the car pleased the dad; the driver. They pissed off the daughter; the passenger. If it was at least raining, then she wouldn’t have to feel like the most miserable person in the world at the time. Somebody else would be miserable because of the rain, it’s a fact.

What is also a fact, at least by the daughter’s standards, is that teenage girls and their dads do not get a long. Never have, never will. So a four hour car trip with a hateful relationship crammed in one car amounts to the Silent War. This particular father and daughter in this particular gray-green steel car were engaged in a particularly Silent War.

The things that aren’t said are so powerful.

The dad turned the radio on. The daughter considered this a victory. “Ohhhh. What now.” she whispered to the passenger window. But somehow, it wasn’t enough. So she changed the station from NPR covering the election to her main man, Lil Wayne. Two seconds passed, and the dad changed it back. She sucked her teeth. A loud squelching sound. She reached her hand out and changed it to Lil Wayne again. He reached out his hand, slapped hers, and changed it back. She slapped his hand and changed it again.

Soon, The Battle of the Hands was underway. Just a portion of the Silent War. Back and forth, more and more viciously, they slapped one another’s hand. It was becoming nearly as intense as the Biden-Palin Vice Presidential debate. However, the two suddenly jerked to a stop at the sound of a horn. The dad had swerved into another lane by accident. He was caught up in the Battle. As he straightened the car out, with both hands on the wheel, the honking car sped past, and its driver gestured rudely with something smaller then his hand. Just one finger, the middle one, to be precise.

Simultaneously, as though contaminated by the enemy, they both wiped their hands on the smooth, leather seats of the gray-green steel car. They had a brief, awkward moment of eye contact, but briskly looked away.

The things that aren’t said are so powerful.

To the daughter’s dismay, their battle had ended with the radio playing, “…. the polls continue to show Obama with a strong lead over McCain…” The war was currently at a tie: one-to-one.

The sky outside grew dark, and daughter’s next plan of evil popped into her head. The devil popped out of the closet. Again. She whipped up her book from the carpeted floor of the car, slyly reached up to the ceiling of the grey-green steel car, and switched the light on. As she opened her book, as though she suddenly had extreme intent on finishing the thing, she could feel he father’s piercing eyes penetrating the skin on her face. Before he could burn a hole in her face and resumed to concentrating on the road. He left the light on.

Victorious! The daughter leads two-to-one.

Suddenly, a horn sounded again. It wasn’t one of those, Get Out Of The Way, Damnit, horns. It was more of a Watch Out! horn. It was coming from behind. The father looked frantically into the rearview mirror, but couldn’t see anything; the light was blocking his vision. Two seconds later, Two terrified screams later, One crash later, the father and the daughter sat in their gray-green steel car in a ditch. The two looked into one another’s frightened, shocked and tear-filled eyes. They each marveled at the still existing life sitting at each other’s side.

The air changed. The Silent War remained silent, but the war was over. The pretend hate evaporated and the true love was unearthed. Simultaneously, the two embraced.

The things that aren’t said are so powerful.