Sin Fronteras Spring 2017 Sin Fronteras Spring 2017 | Page 6

By Denisse García
The Cars That
Judged Me
Isabella Amaro
6

I hear my own feet echo against the dark concrete floor as I walk towards
the car, and I try to listen closely for a sign of sadness in his walk, but I can hear
none. I only hear my feet against the floor and raindrops patiently waiting to
escape my cloudy eyes. It would seem impossible for anyone to hear what
are usually unnoticeable sounds, but I do because I am looking for a sign
hiding inside them. I am looking for a clue to demonstrate a hint of affection. I
want to feel he cares. Desperately, I come to the conclusion that he might not
anymore.

We arrive at the car, and I look at the polished silver hood. Both of our
eyes stare there at the shiny hood, trying to avoid each other’s reflection. He
turns away and gets inside the car, sharply closing the door. The door hits the
frame creating a sound that rumbles through my body and stomps on the
remains of the optimism I had about my circumstances. I slowly stretch my
arm towards the handle of the silver car and open the door. As I stand before
the cold leather seat, I hesitate. Turning around and going somewhere else,
wherever that may be, is all I want to do. Quietly stepping away from the car,
away from him, and walking towards the street. I would keep on walking until
I got tired enough to stop, ignoring my blistered feet, ignoring the stares from
people who think I’m out of my mind. I wish to blur out the comments from
people who believe he is sweet and caring. “He’s just being protective,” they’d
say, every time I tell them how he gets enraged whenever I go out with my
friends, guy friends I mean. I wish I had the courage to turn around and keep
walking until I had no reason to flee anymore.

My mind seems to be running away, following the wishes my body
seems incapable of following, but it is sharply brought back by the sound of
the engine turning over. I shake my head and turn away to look at the other
cars that surround us.

The gray pavement and the monochromatic cars all stare at me as I force
myself onto the seat. And they judge me, knowing that I chose to stay, when
I should have left. They know I did not have the strength to leave. I close the
door trying to avoid their harmful stares.

I reach out for the seatbelt and then let it go, realizing it could save my
life and I would rather not use it anymore. He ignores the smacking sound of
the belt as my hand lets it go, but