justprompts Empty Parking Lot
(I don't know [or can't remember if it's been mentioned] Mike's dad's name, so I'm making one up. It'll be fixed if need be. picture prompt)
Michael sat in his car in the dark, abandoned parking lot. The windows were down and his arm was resting in the open frame. It was a warm night in Miami, but there was still a soft breeze of ocean air blowing over him.
In all the years since his fathers death, he hadn't once been to the graveyard. His mother had tried to get him to go when he was in the city, but he wouldn't. Why would he go pay respects to...his jaw tightened at the thought of his father.
"Mikey, damnit!" Frank Westen slapped Michael in the back of the head with a good force. Michael lurched forward a few inches. He didn't say anything. He knew better than to try to talk when his dad was this angry. "I told you not to touch the damn car! Didn't I tell you that?" Mike looked up at his father with a slow nod. At eleven, he was a scrawny kid. His father was big and intimidating. "You got anything to say for yourself?"
"I didn't-"
Frank's palm came across Michael's cheek. "Don't start telling lies. Now get yourself inside, get a bucket of water, and you wash this car. Now! I want it shining!" Michael stepped back and watched his father retreat into the garage. With his cheek still stinging, he walked into the house. He really hadn't meant to ride his bike into the bumper. It had been an accident...
Michael brushed a hand to his cheek slowly. Maybe the jobs were more to him than needed cash. They were distraction. Kept him busy. Kept his mind off things. Made him forget the haunts of Miami.
He sighed and cranked on the engine of his fathers car. The brief urge to drive it into a wall - total it - bubbled up in him. That would really show Frank Westen. Instead, he shook his head and motored out of the lot. There had to be something he could get into that night.
Michael sat in his car in the dark, abandoned parking lot. The windows were down and his arm was resting in the open frame. It was a warm night in Miami, but there was still a soft breeze of ocean air blowing over him.
In all the years since his fathers death, he hadn't once been to the graveyard. His mother had tried to get him to go when he was in the city, but he wouldn't. Why would he go pay respects to...his jaw tightened at the thought of his father.
"Mikey, damnit!" Frank Westen slapped Michael in the back of the head with a good force. Michael lurched forward a few inches. He didn't say anything. He knew better than to try to talk when his dad was this angry. "I told you not to touch the damn car! Didn't I tell you that?" Mike looked up at his father with a slow nod. At eleven, he was a scrawny kid. His father was big and intimidating. "You got anything to say for yourself?"
"I didn't-"
Frank's palm came across Michael's cheek. "Don't start telling lies. Now get yourself inside, get a bucket of water, and you wash this car. Now! I want it shining!" Michael stepped back and watched his father retreat into the garage. With his cheek still stinging, he walked into the house. He really hadn't meant to ride his bike into the bumper. It had been an accident...
Michael brushed a hand to his cheek slowly. Maybe the jobs were more to him than needed cash. They were distraction. Kept him busy. Kept his mind off things. Made him forget the haunts of Miami.
He sighed and cranked on the engine of his fathers car. The brief urge to drive it into a wall - total it - bubbled up in him. That would really show Frank Westen. Instead, he shook his head and motored out of the lot. There had to be something he could get into that night.