Free The Finer Points of Becoming Machine by Emily Andrews

shyness.
    They were married six weeks later in a
tiny chapel, with only a handful of guests.
    Three months into their marriage, Teresa became pregnant with her first child. I was born seven months later, a tiny, pale, sickly baby. Austin got a job in a factory and worked long hours to provide for his new family.
    I’ve seen pictures of me and Dad when I was a baby, and I can tell by the way he held me that I was a precious, fragile, breakable thing to him, and that he loved me dearly…
    We sit in uncomfortable silence for what seems like forever, but in reality is probably only a minute or so. My father speaks first. He sees my arms and he stares, hard, before his eyes meet mine.
    ‘Oh Emma, what the hell did you do to yourself kid?’ he asks me, and his voice seems sad. And there’s still so much running through my head.
    Most of the fights in the beginning were caused by the stress any young married couple feels when the money is too low and the bills are too high. Teresa took on sewing jobs from a local tailor shop to help bring money in.
    Teresa became pregnant again, and two years after I was born, Paul came into the world.
    I’ve been told that the fighting got worse around this time. The family legend. But Mom was young, had no money, and nowhere to go with two children aged two and under, even if she had wanted to leave. She stayed, and five months after Paul was born, she became pregnant with Rosemary.
    Sitting opposite him, I am surprised by my dad’s tone. I am so used to hearing him angry or upset with me that he completely catches me off guard. My eyes well up with tears. I try to fumble for an explanation.
    ‘I, uh, hurt myself Dad,’ is all I can manage to get out.
    ‘Emma, honey… why?’ he asks. Again he surprises me with the concern in his voice.
    What can I say? How can I explain to him, especially with him acting so nice with me right now, that it is partially his fault that I am here in the first place? How can I tell him that the years of fighting and abuse has festered inside my head until it has become an infection, one that is killing me? I can’t, so I sit and suffer in silence. This is something I’ve done often enough. We all have. Me and Paul and Rosemary.
    I don’t remember Paul – or even Rosemary – being born. But I can remember bits and pieces of things shortly after that. No longer just family legend; I know this for real.
    I remember one time, my dad had an old motorcycle that he spent a lot of time fixing 
up, polishing and working on. One day he and Mom were fighting over God knows what, and he looked at me, picked me up, and we went out to the garage. He sat on the motorcycle and sat me behind him, using a belt to secure me to his back.
    We rode and rode until we were in a forest somewhere. He stopped the bike, and we got off and walked into a tiny log-cabin convenience store at the base of a trail. My dad bought me apple juice in a little glass bottle that was shaped like an apple, and we bought beef jerky.
    We followed the trail until we came to a little stream, with stepping stones placed so you could get to the other side. When we were walking across, I remember slipping and I fell in. My dad turned around and started laughing as he picked me up, all cold and wet and startled. I started to laugh too, and he kissed me on the head and said ‘Emma, don’t you know how to walk?’
    He carried me the rest of the way back to the motorcycle, wrapping me up in his
sweatshirt. We rode home to where Mom was waiting, none too happy to see me dishevelled and sopping wet. They immediately got into an argument over how long my father had been gone, and what in the hell was he doing with a child that young on the back of a motorcycle anyway?
    My father sits in silence, like he’s unsure of what to say next. I’ve always felt that he is made out of stone, a living, breathing statue. His sudden concern for me is shaking me to the core. I’m scared because I feel I’m starting