A loud crash from a textbook on the tiled floor awoke me from my end-of-day slumber,followed by the low rumbles of laughter coming from my classmates. I opened my left eye slightly and looked at the clock.
2:15 pm
I sprung out of my seat, ignoring all of my class"mates", who were (still) giggling over my embarassment. I waved to my teacher as I sprinted out of the classroom and out to my car.

I stared blanky at the woman in front of me. She was thin and had hollow semi-circles under her eyes. Probably from the the lack of vitamin D she was missing from setting inside 24 hours, seven days a week talking to kids like me.

"You have to talk to me, you know," She said, taking off her glasses, "I can't help you unless you do."

"I don't have to say anything." I mumbled.

She sighed and put her notepad on her knee, clicking a pen.
"I'd like to have a conversation with you, at least." She said.

"I'd like to not have every person at Mayfield California highschool hate me. I'd also like to not have to come to a therapist every god-given day after school. But, we don't always get what we want, do we?" I spat, unsure as to why I blew up on her. She tipped her head, scribbled in her notebook and smiled.

"You're times up, you can go."

I gladly stood up and made my way to the door.

A year ago, my mom and I got into a fight and she punched me in the eye, and kicked me in the stomach. The day after, a kid saw it and told the school counselor. This caused a huge up-roar of crap; I denied it, wanting to continue living with my dad (who was supposed to get a divorce but never did) and drop all charges. So instead of arresting my mom, they vouged for me to see a therapist everyday for 2 years to ensure I wasn't getting beat.

Little did they know, right?

I looked at myself in my rearview mirror. My eyes were bloodshot, cheeks stained from my salty streams. The road under my wheels passed quickly. I wanted to end all the pain; emotional and physical. The kids at school didn't help. Therapy didn't help. Not even medicine helped.

Less than twenty feet in front of me was a dead end to the lake bridge. I could easily drive through the flimsy wooden blockade, my car plummiting into the water, the impact of my car hitting the water would kill me almost instantly. I sped up, giving myself one last glance in the mirror before I met my watery deathbed.

My eyes darted from the mirror to a tall, clueless fellow in the street. I stomped on the brake, slinging my head forward and onto my steering wheel.

My eyes flashed open, and I lifted my head up. I must've only been out for a millisecond, because the man was still on the street crouching.

I threw the car in park and jumped out, my hand on my forehead.
"Are you okay?" I breathed, still shaking," I-I'm so sorry, I shouldn't had been going so fast-"

He stood up, and looked at me, almost smiling.
"I'm alright, but you," he said, thumbing my browbone, "You might have bruise approaching."

I tried to force a laugh out, but nothing came.

"Where do you live, I might can call a cab and we'll park your car somewhere-"

I interuptted, "No, that's fine, I'm glad you're alright. Though, I really should be getting home.

He rose his eyebrows.
"You're not driving home when you just about knocked yourself out on the steering wheel, I'll drive you."

I was taken back at how demanding he was.
"You're suggesting I give my car to a stranger I met on the street and let him drive me home?"

He smiled, "I'm not a stranger you met on the street, I'm a stranger you almost hit on the street. Now shut up, and get in."

I cocked my jaw, and walked to the passenger seat.

"What did you say your name was?" I asked, turning down the radio.

"Jackson."

"I'm really sorry, again," I said, glancing over at him.

He cleared his throat.
"You don't have to keep apologizing, I'm fine," He said, "...are you sure you are fine?"

"Well, I-The truth is, um," I stuttered, trying to gather my thoughts," If I tell you why I was crying would you listen?"

He shook his head, "Probably not."

I scoffed, and glanced back at the window.
Typical douche-bag.

I looked at the house in front of us. I noticed he was going on Sunway Avenue, the most expensive street in California (I lived on Baker Lane, the mediocre-income street about 5 miles away from Sunway). It was a beachside bungalow.

"I thought you said you had an apartment?" I said, getting out of the car, the humid-beach air filling my lungs.

He shrugged.
"Felt like going to the bungalow. My apartment gets got during May."

I rolled my eyes.
"Yeah- ookay. Well, bye." I said, shooing him out of my seat.

He walked to the edge of his stone porch, a light cutting on as he did.

I closed my door and searched around for my phone, which was no one in sight. I bent down under the steering wheel to check under the seat. A sharp tap on my window made my head snap up and hit the wheel (second time that night the wheel and I had contact).

"What!" I hissed, rolling down my window at the sight of Jackson. He reached a hand inside my car and dropped my be-loved phone into my lap.

"I'll call you later," He said, winking and chewing on his gum.

I furrowed my eyebrows and out my phone in the cupholder.
Douche-bag.