Chelsea & Fish

Based on actual events.

I decided to dedicate and write this story based primarily on last night's wicked endeavor under the neon hustle of Downtown Orlando. A wicked night that unmistakably felt like a real-life Gonzo-like movie, conquered by unlimited possibilities!

We could easily feel the cool and desperate heat of our new-age desires——a special, blooming hope that would ultimately lead us to love and happiness! We wanted to destroy the pain and sorrow in our own stupid, formidable hearts! We could hear the fervor of the streets: the young, poetic codes that vibrated down the streets of Downtown Orlando. We listened to the rapid, phantasmagorical conversations about anything and everything. Parasites on fashion, baby!

We were fucking bored, appalled by our nothing-lives, going nowhere fast. We proclaimed that we had “lost” our unique ideologies——that our finite hearts were nothing but a conditioned mechanism of recycled energy and waste. Ad infinitum. “You’re wasting your time believing in anything after that,” Fish said to a passing crowd. No one paid him any mind, and for some altruistic reason, I got really upset at the world (mainly because I really liked Fish). Chelsea was a few paces ahead of us, scoping out the neon vibes. I caught up to her and told her that I was glad she had finally introduced me to her boyfriend, Fish. She laughed and did a small curtsy. “Told ya,” she smiled brightly.

During the past few weeks, Chelsea would talk non-stop about her boyfriend. Fish, Fish, Fish, Fish. I had heard just about every affable proclamation about the guy. “Oh! You’ll gonna fuck with him heavy! I know this because you two have a lot in common. Just alike. Definitely alike.” (I felt as if I already knew the fucking guy).

Fish caught up to us, out of breath and talking crazy-fast like an electric machine from the future. I jumped in on Fish’s cool, flowing conversation, but Chelsea wasn’t listening to either of us. She walked quickly and quietly in front of us, staring up at the tall, blinking buildings of Downtown. She looked longingly to the heavens beyond the neon ether, mistakenly knowing fully well that the heavens would be the last sort of phenomenon to respond to her lackluster idiosyncrasies——the dark, empyrean skies will shed no clarity tonight, sorry.

I could tell that Chelsea was sad. Fish made a gesture that said I shouldn’t bother her too much when she gets like this. “She does this all the time, man.” But I wasn’t mad at Chelsea, I was mad at myself. Introspectively, I hadn’t felt such a dirty feeling in my gut since high school. What made it worst was that Chelsea knew I had a crush on her. Tricky girl, she was.

I had known the Chelsea since the voyaging brilliance of Winter Park High School——all those eons ago! At one point in time, we were practically best friends. This was before she went off to college while I stayed behind to finish my last year of high school.

So, I learned how to swallow the torment of my baroness, obediently accepting the natural misfiring of my own lost, loser mind. I tried not to care too much because “feelings” were just a psychological chess game in which you just had to endure——win or lose.

After high school, I lost many empirical years, mainly due to the decadent decade of abuse. Ostensibly, I thought I was “cool” and “scene,” loaded with a smorgasbord of friends! Conclusively, it turned out they only liked the idea of me. My jovial attitude—portrayed to the flames of a new wave——was nothing more than a brief gimmick. I was that new, loner boy with an innocent face that instinctively forced people to “include” me in their polyphonic activities.

One of the worse days of my life: realizing that I was just the main attraction——the new talk in town——to some loony, suburban circus! Yet, I did not know who I had become. My riches were counterfeit, and I gave back all the God-damn trophies! As high school was coming to a spiraling end, I did not “win” any of their affection. My precious pseudo-love was forever gone, lost in a heist of trendy ignominy!

Nevertheless, I was accepted into a flagrant group of kids. (Some would have labeled us as outcasts, weirdos, or nerds). They were into things like playing video games; obsessing over drama club; comparing their favorite TV shows based on novels; concocting gross pranks throughout the day to annoy the popular kids; flirting (or calling names) to cheerleaders; challenging (or arguing) with teachers; cursing loud and obscene messages in the halls (or cafeteria); and skipping class on a daily bases. Truthfully, I felt comfortable around them. I wasn’t pushed into putting on a show, nor pretending that everything was an fucking audition for their attention (or acceptance).

As the school years matured, I was offered: marijuana, cocaine, and alcohol. (You’ve probably heard about “gateway” drugs——a concept I found arcane and misleading——little did I know). Thus, the seeds of addiction had been subconsciously planted in my body’s young and receptive, loose-cannon syndrome of ennoblement! I never stood a chance. I did not know who I was, nor what I would ultimately become. I saw none of this. Maybe this was all just an “act.”

And it was just an act. Chicanery!——nothing had fucking changed. Everyone was in on this subterfuge! An illusion of grandeur, of fake friendships. They were clever kids——vicious as fucking vultures!

I was unmistakably left with a mountain of galactic residue which made me question the true possession of affinity; to question every jaded connection that swept past my core conditioning! Life had only given me more questions than answers, and I knew the gear of time was counting down something unequivocal and ultimate——the nexus of passion! I felt like I had missed some sort of interstellar opportunity. I felt further and further away from truth and understanding. Slowly, I started to grow angrier and angrier. Angry at the world——at myself——at the beginning of it all!

On the last day of high school, my so-called “friends” had vanished from my existence——gone, rang out, washed out, and echoed off into the miasma of some chimerical ploy! (In sorrow, I drew crude stick figure comics in the back of my yearbook——in the empty pages that were meant for signatures, phone numbers, and pleasant send-offs).

With the exception of Chelsea, I can safely say that I have not seen, nor kept in contact with anyone from high school. It hurts in knowing that people can just come into your life for a finite amount of time, and then leave for the rest of eternity! It was so hard——almost impossible!——to hold on to the solidarity of “friendship.” Everyone would crumble before my eyes, and nothing would ever last!

Once I entered college life, I was ablaze with that horrible epitome from my adolescent destruction! My habits evolved (or, worsened). I was very spectral and curious in the experimental category of doing every fucking drug possible. My attitude was already close to the fires of my own decadence, and since I did not trust anyone, I wanted to “experience” a different vision——my own fucking fantastic version in the voyage of self-discovery!

One of my classmates (my only “friend” at the time), Mat Buz, had introduced me to the ameliorating glory of Alprazolam. Xanax had become my new addiction——my pseudo-savior! “It’s always a good day when you wake up and have pills,” he would say and then laugh uncontrollably.

I felt so alive during the epoch of college! What magic in those God-damn pills: how it could change such an enormous network of misfiring energy in the complex of my brain! Apparently, I had lacked the “proper” (or, balancing) brain chemicals——which was one of the main reasons why the unbearable juggernaut of living was so damn hard for me!

Throughout the following years, Chelsea had always stuck around. We talked from time to time, sometimes for months on end, something years of silence. Mainly, we kept in contact through social media. Mainly, looking at all of her beautiful photos, and living life (loving! Life). So yes——all these years later——that pumping mechanism of my hopeless heart still held a secret affinity for her! Could you blame me?

Time passed by like the translucent morality of clouds and seasons. Reality pushed us into an undeveloped retrospection of early adulthood. The engram of our fragile minds was conditioned with uncaring poison——full of hot danger and animosity! We bred despair. Welcome us.

Chelsea had told Fish about my past and how I had been heavily addicted to Xanax, which later led to crack cocaine, and ultimately, heroin. Fish told me that it would take some time before I would start to "feel" more like myself again. I hated the “recovery” process, especially when it involved my own lame body. “This body is compromised,” I said, being difficult. “You want a new one? Well, can’t. Sorry, man,” Fish said, not missing a beat. “I look like a fucking tecato. I think about "using" almost every day. Some days are easier than other days, but that’s far and in between,” I said with a heavy lure of dejection.

Chelsea and Fish had gotten off dope altogether (they’ve been clean 57 days). “It gets easier,” Chelsea would say to me——yeah as if I didn’t trust the blasting balance of my own disarrayed body! “Hey, it does get easy, man,” Fish annoyingly reiterated. Chelsea smiled at her boyfriend; her rosy cheeks bloomed a warm rush of pink. She leaned over and kissed her boyfriend. After a millisecond upon her lascivious lips, Fish broke away. “I’m going to wait in line,” he said aloofly and got in line.

We had decided to hit up Bar Aero, but none of us were making any attempts to wait in line. I looked at Chelsea and saw that her eyes were large and elemental. She looked sad. She noticed me looking at her. Her lips departed a millimeter as if waiting for me to say something. Of course, I had a million things to say to her, but I did not say anything. She smiled, then, turned away from me, looking to the back of the line, looking for Fish.

It was around one in the morning, and people were starting to flock onto the streets, leaving bars, going into bars, converging in a great, drunken mass of mini skirts and stilettos; followed by a sleuth of tropical-flower T-shirts and hipster beards——mingling in the “play” of the opposite sex. The cacophony was maddening! Terminally, I wish that my cavernous mind would shut the fuck up, stop thinking, and fucking do something! “Well, let’s go,” Fish said astronomically.

I remembered being so manically depressed because, earlier that day, I had gotten into a big fight with my parents. A good score, but a bad night. My father had found me passed out——"unresponsive"——in the garage. When I finally regained consciousness, I instantly (frantically) realized that the junkie cat was out of the bag! My schizophrenic father screamed at me and told me that he had flushed my bag of heroin down the fucking toilet! What happened next was no surprise to anyone: the sickness swelled in me with a burning vengeance! The withdrawal was like a brutal, juggernaut explosion in my quivering bones! Time became horrible torture as my body tried to regulate the ruinous chemicals that swam chaotically in my desultory system.

A dark hatred developed deep in my mind——a new level of hatred that I had never felt before. I was enormously aware of my heart and how it slowly turned to stone. I gave up and gave in to my dilapidated, uncontrollable lifestyle. Experimental conditioning for the worsening soul! "Fucked-up-son-of-the-century." Won that award. There was a red fever that eclipsed my vision; I lashed out at my parents, at myself, at the entire God-forsaken world——in sickness, in complete desperation and defeat! I swore, I scared the living hell out of myself. I was in complete shock and disbelief at what I was saying (or screaming) at my heart-torn father and at my grief-stricken mother. I conjured a nasty vocabulary, shouting things that I could never take back (time was not on my side). I conditioned my sad, sick heart to the grave of desolation——it was just easier this way. “Nailed fucking shut!”

I stopped talking, sometimes going for weeks on end without a breath from my rotten colloquy. I thought about death a lot. I told myself I wanted to kill myself, but I was too much of a pussy to do anything about it. I could not handle that demented weight into the absolute! Sometimes, I would simply forget that I was even alive.

My family suffered with me for many years. After a decade of abuse, I knew I would never be the same person again——I was not coming back. I was a goner (I had even tattooed the word “GONER” on my thigh). “Forget your worth, kid,” I told myself.

Yet, I never truly “hated” my parents, and I knew they still loved me with the same amount of love they shared for my other siblings. Infinitely, I had changed——completely rewired my own frayed vivacity! “We’re down till we’re underground,” I spoke to myself.

But I guess the “universe” had other plans for me. I got off heroin cold turkey, reverting only to smoking a shit-ton of weed. A few weeks later, I found myself working in a restaurant, washing dishes. The work was endless, and the place was a constant “shit-show,” but I enjoyed the work——it was like some sick form of meditation——and my mind stayed buoyant and aloof for the duration of my shift.

Shockingly, I was starting to like myself again, only because I could not “remember” the person I used to be, nor the hellion of my possessed mind! My conversations were steady, and I could confidently let out an ephemeral whisper, a rare word or two of acknowledgment (I had never liked the sound of my own voice). My mind felt a lot calmer, but my heart was practically nonexistent.

Back home was a different story. The house was frenetic, and I could sense a lot of bad energy inside——a haunting trigger that was never far from my burrowing imagination. Occasionally, “user dreams” would cycle in my sleep, and I would wake up in sweat——my mind racing, and my body trembling.

I would lay awake for hours, which was when the darker thoughts in me would resurface. My heart would thunder on and on. Sometimes, I felt like screaming, but I couldn’t wake my parents (any tiny, abnormal behavior would childishly trigger them into thinking I was back on dope). I had conditioned them to never trust me, nor “believe” the damaged emotions that I would utter.

Disturbance in slow sorrow and rumination. Past regrets and dissociation destroyed any semblance of a healthy recovery. I could not get my fucking mind to shut off——anger was always at the helm of my mind! Self-hatred came to me in silent waves——a rip tide of obsolescence! “Abandon all ye hope, and enter said house of horror. Welcome it! Become it!” I said to no one——desperately wanting to scream at the sun. Then, I would cry until the early morning of a new day that I never even wanted anything to do with, to begin with. A vicious cycle and I was so fucking tired of waking up!

I knew there was only one thing to do. Once my parents went to sleep, I quietly snuck into the garage and tied a noose around my neck as I carefully stepped upon my mother’s antiquated gardening stool. I did not close my eyes. For reasons unbeknown to me, my phone rang (I had left my phone in my back pocket without even realizing it).

It was Chelsea and Fish on the line! They asked me if I was okay. “We haven’t heard from you in like weeks, and people are starting to worry, dude.” Then, they asked me a bunch of rudimentary questions that I could not answer due to the pressure of the rope around my neck. I heard them fumble with the phone, and Chelsea was saying something indistinguishable. Fish said my name out loud. Four times, he yelled my name. Chelsea came back on the phone and told me to get my shit together. “Get dressed and put your shoes on,” she ordered. “O-o-okay.” I was back on solid ground by this point. “Why?” I croaked.

Apparently, they wanted to take me out to see the new Doctor Strange movie. Chelsea said I had to be sober, otherwise, they wouldn’t pick me up. I did not want to die. I think they could hear me crying over the phone. I heard them say that they could be at my house in fifteen minutes.

I cleaned up the garage, erasing any form of suicidal propaganda (I hid the rope because I still had other use for it——mind your business). I quickly got dressed and put on my new pair of Converse. I did not want to die. I had somehow forgotten about my friends. Chelsea and Fish.

“We are the hopeless conundrum in this ephemeral existence,” I said to myself, forcing my voice to sound like Fish. I had introduced them to the conceptualization of indifference, an idea that went hand-in-hand with the actualization of nothingness——that nothing was, and nothing will ever be. As they pulled into my parent’s driveway, I suddenly did not mind that we were nothing. Nothing, but one great phantasmagorical network of energy and matter, in an ever-expanding universe that was transcending into other omnipotent energy, rendering us indifferent to the cosmic soup of even more energy——great balls of insignificant stardust, going out silently, with no one to bear witness to the astronomical collision and creation of the unknown and infinite void! We will always be in second place. We just had to bid our time, close our eyes, and dream of the heavens. It was going to be fucking spectacular, and I could hardly wait!

We were unique souls——the three of us——sad, lost, and indifferent to whatever comes next, never swimming against the currents of our fluid lives. We were a quixotic mess, forced to endure the equalization of grey concepts, believing only in the chemicals in our brain. We just wanted to fit in (just for a little while). We were so fucking bored, and our eyes shone dimly like we only blinked, cried, and saw things in empty and slow ways.

“Hey, we’re all fucking depressed, man,” Fish said as a way to cheer me up. Chelsea started to cry and asked me if I could give her a hug. I did. “See, man,” Fish snorted, then laughed luminously.

The rapid excitement and decline of our libido gave us unique energy as we walked the streets of Downtown Orlando. I felt like nothing in the world could hurt us. We were our own undoing——radical and undone! “Three lost souls!” I shouted. “Three blind mice!” Fish shouted. “Three’s a company!” Chelsea shouted. Everyone was staring at us like we were fucking crazy. And we were ——that was the beauty of it.

After the movie, Chelsea and Fish asked if I wanted to be dropped off at home. I told them that I didn’t think it would be a good idea for me to be alone. They didn’t know where I stood in my debasement with drugs but figured I was doing better. “You look better, man,” Fish noticed. Chelsea said that she was sorry and felt bad because she hadn’t been around much. Also, I had no fucking clue what Fish had been up to these past few months either.

Chelsea explained: she and Fish had taken a small “break” in their relationship. I wondered why? They were our very own generation’s last (fucked-up) hope for the romantic existence of tragic love (a love only seen in the movies; a love I knew nothing about). Fish answered, “She believes that I’ve been cheating on her, and smoking molly with a bunch of my ‘scumbag’ friends, so we got into a big fight, man. Like bad, bad. Then, out of nowhere, six fucking police cruisers are surrounding us, but she just keeps hitting me, and hitting me, even though every God-damn cop had their pistols out! They talked to us through a fucking big-ass microphone that was attached to the roof of their cars, ordering Chelsea to stop hitting me, and to step away from each other, right? But, for some reason, she fucking tells the cops a bunch of bullshit lies, and of course, they all fucking believe her! They take one look at me, one fucking look at all the tattoos on my face, and then they threw me to the ground and arrested me, man!”

Chelsea listened quietly, looking sadly at Fish as he told his side of the story. She had a strange expression on her face——a broken smile with the tiny etchings of remorse because, all-in-all, she did send her boyfriend to jail, for seven months, on hearsay. “Has it been that long already?” I was in disbelief (time had won again). “Yeah, man,” Fish said and laughed shrewdly like he was remembering some cool or violent episode during his stay in County. “33rd ain’t no joke, man!” he told me, wrapping his loose arm around my neck.

Chelsea smiled clumsily and said, “I apologized to Fish like a thousand times, but he’s so freaking hard-headed! That, and he doesn’t want to forgive me!” “I’ve got seven months and a bad feeling in my hands to decide to forgive you,” Fish said distractedly. “Dude,” I said, turning to Fish, “Fucking forgive her.” And just like that, he did.

They kissed for a long time and hugged for an even longer time. I eased my eyes away from them, disgusted at their cute innocence. Afterward, I asked if they wanted to hang out in my garage since my parents were now asleep. They liked the idea immediately.

I knew Chelsea was getting tired of Downtown because the streets were growing more hectic by the minute, and we could witness the beginning of a big-ass fight just a couple of blocks from us. Fish was indifferent to the scene, but he followed suit. “Let’s get the hell out of here!” she said, walking off into the slow-burning neon shut-down.

My mother had cleaned out half of the garage to occupy enough space for my “collection” of CDs and DVDs. She had also set up a small “craft” table for my acrylics and such. The shelves were archived heavily with nostalgic memorabilia——a monolithic assemblage from my long-forgotten childhood——stored neatly in plastic containers at the end of the garage. (The end of the garage: the same place my father had found me when I accidentally “over-dosed” on heroin). House was a trigger, every which way you looked at it. “Welcome it. I mean, welcome in,” I said shyly.

We sat side-by-side on my mother’s old couch. We talked about the movie, highlighted our favorite parts of the film, and critiqued the worst parts of the film. Time flowed nostalgic and backward ——I was shocked to realize I never truly noticed the movement (or decay) of time anymore. Nonetheless, I was enjoying their company. For once, “time” held no true significance in the pendulum of my eyes. Chelsea said the only thing she didn’t like about the movie was that not enough people died. I laughed. Fish looked confused and asked, “Wait, you wanted more people to die?” No one died that night. I think I considered this a small victory. I loved my friends. We were three lost souls——depressed and desolate—— traveling this strange “torpedo” of an existence. “Like three Musketeers!” Fish said, and we cheered him on, laughing and clapping. They kept me company until the early morning of a new day. This, I did not mind.

A week later, our bromidic ideologies would sweep us back into the romance of Downtown Orlando. Sadly, I learned that they had been living out of Chelsea’s car for a few weeks, and had just recently fallen into some money (I suspected that their magical “funds” were due to Fish’s innocuous “drug” dealings).

Thus, on a hot summer morning, a very excited Fish called me up. In one long sentence, he told me that they had purchased a room at Motel 6 (just on the edge of John Young and OBT). Instinctively, I lied to my parents and told them that I was going to “work.” Hastily, I got dressed and hopped on the Lynx 29.

Approximately one and a half hours later, I was reunited with Chelsea Love and Fish Empirical. “Motel! Hotel! Motel! Hotel!” Fish sang. “If you’re 555, then I’m 666!” “Yeah, Motel 6, I get it.” “Place has a fucking pool, man!” “It’s hot as fuck. Can we, like, go swimming soon?” “You’re the guest, man! You can swim now, later, or whenever!” “Hi, Chelsea,” I said, waving empirically at her. She waved back, confused because we were standing right next to each other. “Okay, where the fuck are the keys, Chels?” “Fish!”

And my suspicions were right: they had been——innocuous indeed

——dealing in Percocet 30s. They were fucking high as a kite, but I kept my tongue statuesque. With cinematically enlarged eyes, Chelsea made me promise that I would not do any (as if I had the money for a God-damn perc). “Promise me you won’t do any. But you have to promise,” Chelsea begged me. Fish was distracted; he kept looking up at the windows, probably deciding which floor would best suit us. “This, this, this will be our new haven. This will be where we can relax. And fuck. And take a break from everything and everyone. It’s about God-damn time,” ambiguous words said by Fish. I knew what he meant.

Fish had like sixteen fucking keys sashaying between his dirty fingers. His eyes were enormously black. “Hmm, vampiric,” I said, but no one heard me. “Okay, now let’s go up to our room!” said a very excited Chelsea. I liked seeing her happy (lately, this was a rare thing to encounter; but then again, I couldn’t remember the last time any of us were truly “happy”). Without thinking, she grabbed my hand instead of Fish’s, but he was already halfway down the hall. With lightning speed, he booked it out the elevator. Ding! and then he was gone. “Okay, we lost Fish. FISH! FISH!” Chelsea yelled to her swashbuckling boyfriend. “He’s gone,” I said, for no reason at all. “Will you help me, please?” she asked with soft (probably numb) lips. “I have no idea how to get there!” “It’s room 218,” I said. “Follow me.” Hand-in-hand, down the rabbit path we went.

Once Chelsea was in the bathroom, Fish secretly nudged me. I looked down at his open hand. Green glory! He mouthed the words: “Don’t tell Chelsea.” “Okay,” I mouthed back.

Time slowly moved away from us. Time: dissolving into milky-ether-nothingness. Like fiery wizards in deep, hot-pink connection, we plundered the dismal courts for hours. In that all-to-familiar drug-fueled rage of possession, we fucking risked it all! We did, and said anything we had to, just to feel loved; just to fight for that strong, ephemeral rush of the moment! Enigmatic conquerors, we were! Yet, somewhere in the depths of our convoluted engram, we knew that the hazy consequence of our “drug-riches” would either destroy us, or blow us into a galaxy of warmth and unlimited affection (or, sedation). We just wanted out. We were so desperate for change; for a chance to escape the violence of our past (the dark addiction that we had to live with for time immemorable).

Inevitably, we were destined to lose ourselves in the swallowing pace of the world——baron and full of the mainstream over-flow of galactic information! Nothing would come to supremacy! All we had was each other, living dangerously on the edge. We couldn’t stop now——the motivation of our fire-momentum was all-consuming! All we had were our own melting aspirations of hope, and a determination to survive——with a creed of success or power——with these cool, galactic ideas in the bright jettison of our heated soul!

I desperately wanted to meet the ambiguous energy of new people (e.g. beautiful “white girls”). I was ready (or so I thought).

Chelsea and Fish had been dating——on and off——for a few years now. I knew they had discovered that magical elixir of devotion——it was so obvious in how they would look at one another, or argue in such a tempestuously fantastic and idiotic way! They were destined for that infinite understanding of life! They had discovered what I had only dreamt of——it was an almost unfathomable thought! Fuck, I could just watch them forever!

I was in love with Chelsea; I was in love with Fish. My eyes, curious and grand, craved for my own crashing take on the tragic beauty of love. Deep down, I knew that I was ready. “I-need-you ready-for-this,” I chanted to my mirror-self. I cut away my ego and cursed the sick misery of my unstoppable mind. Then, I punched the mirror. Glass shattered everywhere, forcefully cutting my arms, neck, and face. I felt nothing. Was I never fully alive? When will I wake the fuck up? I was so fucking scared of life, of myself, of what would ultimately become of my sad existence in the hellion-spiral of these endless and sad days. And in all reality, I did not care about anything (e.g. “nothing”). God, help me. “God is dead, just like the infinite void beyond all things I can no longer see. This world has left me a long, long time ago, and I give up. I give up! I give up!” Okay, I really should be cleaning up the bathroom, or they’ll really be upset! Plus, I didn’t want management to over-charge us for a freakin’ mirror. Shit, I got blood fucking everywhere! This was going to take a lot longer to clean than I had anticipated. Well, at least I knew I had “all the time in the world.” Give or take.

After Chelsea had overdosed, Fish ran into the street and got hit by a car, right outside of the fucking ER! As I ran up to him, I swore he was dead, but he wasn’t. He looked searchingly at me as if he was having a hard time remembering who I was. Then, he reached into his wet pocket and pulled out the keys to Chelsea’s car. “It’s yours now,” Fish said hollowly, coughing up a ridiculous amount of blood.

I stayed with Chelsea and Fish at the hospital for a few days. Shortly after, I got bored and walked out of the hospital. I found Chelsea’s car (which was parked just a few blocks from the hospital, near Motel 6). I unlocked the door and hopped in. I looked around the cluttered backseat, full of their dirty clothes, hygienic products, paper receipts, and empty chip bags. When I opened the glove compartment, the bottle of Percocet fell out and rolled under my feet. I picked up the bottle and gave it a little shake——it was practically still full. And to my surprise, her car still had a full tank of gas. My heart was juggernaut-heavy with thunder, and it was unusually hard to hear. I turned on the ignition and put the car in DRIVE. Then, I drove off. I drove for-fucking-ever.