Let me off, she screams. They think she likes it. They think she’s lucky. She gets all of the excitement - the roller coasters, the scramblers, the bumper cars. Most seem destined to simply watch from behind the railings. They want to be her; they want to live with that kind of fury. They can’t know what it’s like. They don’t know the agony.

Up and down, back and forth, sideways, in circles. Jostled about, jerked around, bumped into. Never ending. No peace, no rest.

Not now, not for her. He’s gone. Shattered her trust and left forever. His choice. And look what has happened to daddy's little girl now.

She’s tired of it. She’s tired of waiting in line, being flung about for so brief a time and finding she doesn’t like it at all. It’s never what she expected, never what she wants. And they don’t always like to let her off, when she asks – sometimes she has to fight.

Every time, a new hurt. Wonderful collection of raw edges, sore spots, and gaping holes.

And the terrible, terrible doubt, the legacy of her father. She couldn’t have known.

Still that dark force drives her on. It drives, but she chooses. She chooses which lines, which rides. She chooses when it ends. Behind her stretches a trail of broken-down machines, all her fault. But she can’t stop.

Crying, sobbing, pleading – please, no more. Be done. I don’t want this. Make it stop. Let me off. Let me heal.

She tries, she does - to get away, to run. Away from the endless, meaningless amusement. Away from the haunting memory and the hollow emptiness. Too much. Have to run again.

Last time? Are there, for once, stable arms to run to? Or just one more machine, unable to fill the void, and destined for destruction, like everything else she touches.

01/29/2003

Author's Note: My attempt at a short, short story. I'm discovering it's difficult to tell a good story when you're limited to around 300 words.

Posted on 01/30/2003
Copyright © 2024 Amanda J Cobb