The car's totally packed to the brim, and it's just as well, because you're never going to be allowed back again. You're stumbling to the driver's side, tears blinding your steps. You rush inside and rest your head on the steering wheel, your eyes overflowing, your head pounding, your throat aching, your voice rasping out empty sobs.

You hear a loud, angry yell and you shoot up, switching the engine on and skidding out of the drive way, taking a quick look back at the house to see your father and grandmother glaring at you. And it's not their scolding glare. They're disappointed in you, they're furious. They'll never view you in the same way again.

And you…you have nowhere to go.

So you drive. You drive on, making your way through Lima, out of Lima, somewhere between Lima and Cincinnati. You turn around when it's getting far, it's getting late, and the sun is setting and everything feels weird because at this time you're usually at home with your family and your little brothers running around the house screaming battle cries and your older sister and her boyfriend watching TV with you and your older brothers and your dad are setting the table and your mother and grandmother are cooking and you're sitting on the stairs just taking in the feel of the house because, god damn, you love this house and this place and now…

Now…

Now it's all just gone.

You turn into some sort of parking lot and take deep breaths, resting your head on the seat behind you, letting out a strangled gasp and suddenly feeling your hands itch. You bring your right hand up to your elbow and pinch, hard, because you need to do something with your hands and not doing anything isn't helping.

You pinch and it stings, but it isn't enough. It's definitely not enough.

So you grab the keys out of the ignition and curl your legs underneath you but you have no idea what to do. This was all just blind reaction, this is all a mistake…

But the thought's too slow compared to the hand moving the key, stupid blunt surfaced key, over your arm, leaving red angry marks, red glaring marks. And with every mark you wince.

But it isn't enough.

None of it is enough, none of this pain from the key can even begin to measure to anything. None of it at all can be what you need.

So you just cry, the marks fading slowly, and your eyes getting itchier and the car getting colder and your throat getting raspier. And you just sit there and blame yourself.

For falling in love with your best friend, for daring to be different, for being a bitch, for not being able to take anything like a Lopez, for crying, for hating yourself…

And then you just blame yourself even more.

Before you drive out of the parking lot and continuing on, you take a glance in the mirror.

And the image staring back is shattered perfection.