raisedbymoogles (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
raisedbymoogles) wrote2021-03-03 01:06 am
raisedbymoogles) wrote2021-03-03 01:06 am
Entry tags:
I'd prompt this on 3SF and then fill it myself if they hadn't closed to prompts yesterday XD
It was a little past nine when Sara heard the rumble of a pickup truck outside the back gate. She shot a panicked glance toward the house, but there was no sign anyone was paying attention to her - no shouting, no storming out to come put the fear of God into her again.
"Coast is clear, baby," the driver informed her.
"Hang on," she whisper-shouted back, and pinned the last pair of work jeans to the line out of - maybe - a lingering sense of duty.
She'd stashed her bag behind a bush the night before - its contents would be cold and clammy by now, but they'd dry and she wouldn't have been able to sneak it out of the house any later. Sara eased it up onto her shoulder and gave the house one last long look. Eighteen years of dreams smothered in the cradle, of smiling at home like it's church, of every other word out of her mouth being 'Jesus.' After today she'd shake the dust of this town off her feet and never say its name again.
They were so proud of their perfect daughter.
Her ride was getting impatient, Sara could feel it in her chest as sure as if Jess was laying on the horn, but the same impulse that led her to finish hanging her dad's clothes made her dig in her bag for a notebook and pen. Sorry, she wrote, but I got to go. Her pen hovered. It seemed inadequate. Were there words to explain the why in a way that would make them understand it, accept it? Find some peace with it?
Duty died, killed by the same anger that led her to plan her escape in the first place. You know they'll just make up their own story anyway, it told her.
She knew that was true. She stuck the note in the screen and ran for the gate before anyone could catch so much as a flicker of her ponytail.
(Songfic for Suds in the Bucket by Sara Evans, inspired by maybe too many AITA posts and the thought "nobody runs off with some dude at 18 if everything's hunky-dory at home." ...I don't think 90s country music is gonna be my new fandom. XD)
"Coast is clear, baby," the driver informed her.
"Hang on," she whisper-shouted back, and pinned the last pair of work jeans to the line out of - maybe - a lingering sense of duty.
She'd stashed her bag behind a bush the night before - its contents would be cold and clammy by now, but they'd dry and she wouldn't have been able to sneak it out of the house any later. Sara eased it up onto her shoulder and gave the house one last long look. Eighteen years of dreams smothered in the cradle, of smiling at home like it's church, of every other word out of her mouth being 'Jesus.' After today she'd shake the dust of this town off her feet and never say its name again.
They were so proud of their perfect daughter.
Her ride was getting impatient, Sara could feel it in her chest as sure as if Jess was laying on the horn, but the same impulse that led her to finish hanging her dad's clothes made her dig in her bag for a notebook and pen. Sorry, she wrote, but I got to go. Her pen hovered. It seemed inadequate. Were there words to explain the why in a way that would make them understand it, accept it? Find some peace with it?
Duty died, killed by the same anger that led her to plan her escape in the first place. You know they'll just make up their own story anyway, it told her.
She knew that was true. She stuck the note in the screen and ran for the gate before anyone could catch so much as a flicker of her ponytail.
(Songfic for Suds in the Bucket by Sara Evans, inspired by maybe too many AITA posts and the thought "nobody runs off with some dude at 18 if everything's hunky-dory at home." ...I don't think 90s country music is gonna be my new fandom. XD)