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Chapter 4: Something To Remember

The thing I loved about my car is the fact that it was the only place where I let my guard down. It was my safe place, the only place I felt safe.

Granted there were your occasional car crashes and the amount of other sorted accidents but besides that, they were my place…to be me.

It was a clean get away, turn the keys in the ignition and go. No one cares once you're over that red horizon line and the blue and gray skies fade into one twisted multicolored sunset. Because in reality, you can escape all the agonies and headaches that were fucking caused by mere chances of catching some other asshole on a bad day and all of this could've been avoided if you had just moved 5 seconds faster and gotten out of that room.

And left, and drove away. Because no one cared, and no one worried.

I looked over at Paris' dad, he's been out cold for an hour now, and that's the time I've been standing here, wondering if the kid was actually going to drive my car back and the time that was wasted on me trying to be the good person that I really am and tried to help a poor kid out.

And I hated that because I always get let down.

Why should I pour myself out onto some shitty pavement in New York City for another abused kid? How many movies have you seen that? How many public service announcements urge you to do that? How many special TV shows have you seen with that character normally breaking down in the end and giving into the ideal version of suburban life?

Because not everybody was like that.

I needed something to drink.

I needed that last cigarette in the pack.

I needed a smoke.

But thanks to that little kid, I have no cigarettes.

My wallet is inside the car now that I realize it.

And I look a mess now, so I won't be getting any free drinks tonight.

So I looked around, deciding what to do now.

And then I did what any self respecting person would do.

I started walking

You know, I think my issues started when I was younger, around the summer time, when I was little and I was rotting away inside my shitty house, thinking of what my life would be like. Because I know what I wanted, and I know what I needed, I just needed to get the good grades and get the hell out of there.

See, this was before my dad became an annoyance and my mom became a pain.

Before my grandfather became an asshole and before my grandmother became the biggest person that I'd ever go against.

Because we had different views on a lot of different things.

Blah blah blah.

It's annoying to think back on it.

All I know was that by the age of 10 I was smart enough to harbor feelings of anger, by 11 I was obsessed with revenge, by 12 I was a cynical smart ass with enough wit to get me anywhere in the world and by 13 I was a slowed down depressed teen with issues and a pen. And a paintbrush. Or a scalpel, it was whatever I wanted to be in the palm of my hands.

You know, I could've been the president.

Or Donald Trump.

Or even Miss America

Or one of those Iron men.

And now here I am, stuck on the side of some road because some punk kid stole my damn car.

So as I swagger and walk and fumble along the lines, thinking that wonderful question of " Oh where did I go wrong?" over and over again I see these bright lights and the car window roll down I stop and look up wearily." Paris?"

"Can I at least have the red ones?" He whispered timidly as I throw him the bag of skittles.

Apparently, the kid drove down to a 7-11 to get some skittles and a V-8 splash, which he drunk on the way back. He supposedly felt bad of what he did, he felt like he betrayed me, and decided to come back and pick me up.

God, this kid…

"Why are you with me kid? Don't you know better to hang around strangers? I could like…abuse you or something. Go away, before I hurt you again" I said with anger, glaring him down and trying to look disheveled and deranged.

He stared at me," You won't hurt me"

"I won't?" I asked, raising my eyebrows at him.

He shook his head.

I curled my hand into a fist and then punched him, right in the arm, same spot his dad had hit him too. He visibly flinched and looked down at the arm before looking at me and then at the bag between his legs. His skinny fingers reached down and pulled out a red and blue skittle, murmuring to himself how he likes the way they taste.

My eyes refocus back to the road, the silver and red lights practically blinding me as I feel myself getting lazy, letting my defense down as I always do when I get inside my car. I almost wanted to tell him sorry for hitting him and buying him another ice cream cone, or another pact of skittles and pick out all the red and blue ones for him, anything to please him, but then I see him looking down at the floor, rubbing his arm gentle and whispering thing sunder his breath to himself.

Thee kid's a wreck.

And I know this because of his appearance, and for whatever odd reason that this is happening, that he's following me around and won't let go of me, I know one things for sure.

This will be one of the longest months of my life.

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