Title: Full Speed Ahead
Summary: You don't think about it as your foot presses down on the gas pedal. Something in the back of your mind screams that this is a bad idea but you are Alaska Young and not exactly famous for your good ideas. (Alaska-centric)
notes1: I had Lana Del Rey's Ride on repeat the whole time while writing this because the song is just so...Alaska.
Notes2: Also I think I'm getting better at writing 2nd person.
I'm tired of driving 'till I see stars in my eyes
You are horribly , disgustingly and obviously pissed drunk. You shouldn't be driving right now and you definitely should not be speeding. You are almost certain that at some point you are going to be pulled over for the speeding and then arrested for DUI.
But you are Alaska Young and you honestly do not give two shits.
What's another scratch on the dusty old record? No one would be surprised, really. Because you are Alaska Young, the wild child, the fuck-up, the ne'er-do-well, the terrible daughter who let her own mother die and then nearly forgot the anniversary. You forgot your dead mother.
You check the rearview mirror to see if your mother's pretty white flowers are okay—they are thank goodness—and pretend not to notice that the sky is beginning to lose its inky darkness because this night can't be over yet, you haven't even gotten halfway there yet.
And then you are stopping at a red light and tears are running down your cheeks, hot and salty and you are pounding the steering wheel with your fists, screaming and raging at the universe because everything is so fucked up.
I'm sorry, you yell out, I'm sorry Mom I'm sorry Pudge I'm sorry Colonel and Lara and Jake and Dad sorry sorry sorry. You are so sorry, the sorriest person you have ever known—and isn't that just the saddest thing?—and you keep saying the word over and over (and over and over and over) and you hope it isn't losing its meaning the way other words do when you keep repeating it because you are just so sorry.
The light blinks green and then you are gone, Blue Citrus' tires burning rubber on the coal black streets.
Your foot presses down hard on the gas pedal until you are accelerating so fast you are just barely making the turns. Between the speeding and the rage and the tears and the booze you can hardly see a thing. The world around you is a mashed up blur—streaks of fleeting color.
But you can still see the road and the headlights and the familiar flashing blue and red coming in ahead of you from the side.
You don't slow down though because the night is almost over and it won't be today anymore and you haven't had said hello yet. Haven't had the chance to say goodbye.
You don't even think about it as your foot goes down even more on the pedal (something in the back of your mind screams that this is a bad idea but you are Alaska Young and not exactly famous for your good ideas).
"Straight and fast," you say out loud (those will be your last words and it's really too bad Pudge isn't around to remember them).
"Straight and fast," you say again and take a breath. This is your escape route, the way out of the labyrinth despite its obstacles and bends and twists. That's the way—the only way for you.
Can't stop now.