BROKEN GLASS. TOM KAULITZ

xix . all my fault

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

THEY COULD BE TALKING ABOUT ME, LIKE, RIGHT NOW. Chris and Tom. I hate that.

So after I choke down dinner I decide to take Frogley for a walk. I slip on my shoes, call him from the living room and hook him up to the leash. He figures out what's going on and squirms and slobbers all over me.

"I thought dogs were supposed to mellow with age," I tell him. He flicks his tongue at my face and I back away just in time. "Jesus, Frogley."

"Priscilla, don't talk like that in the house," Mom scolds. "It's disrespectful."

Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.

"T'll see you guys later."

"Have a nice walk, sweetheart." Dad.

"Be home by nine." Mom. I don't say anything. "I mean it, Priscilla."

"Yeah, sure," I say, and then, for good measure: "Whatever."

So I leave and we walk, and it's an okay walk. I steer Frogley onto Chris's street without realizing it. Actually, that's a lie. I know what I'm doing.

I know what I'm doing and it's stupid.

But Frogley pulls me forward at a happy trot, his tongue always and forever hanging out of his mouth. The closer we get to Chris's house, the more uneasy I feel, but maybe I'd feel better to pass it once and then go home.

So that's what I'll do.

We're practically there when this string of cars go by, one after the other, and I feel criminal, caught. It makes me want to turn back, but I can't because the thought is there, that I should pass the house. So I have to.

This is so stupid.

And then this explosion of sound fills the street, like a small bomb going off — an engine backfiring — and Frogley yelps and tears loose because I'm not holding the leash tightly enough. He runs into the road and before I can call him back or go after him, there are all these other sounds, smaller sounds, this dull thud, squealing tires.

And then silence.

Just like that.

He lies in the middle of the street, his legs splayed out before him the way they are when he sleeps on the living room floor. I go to him, kneel down in front him. He stares up at me, pitiful but alive. His leg, it's dark and wet. But what kind of...

What kind of asshole hits a dog and drives away?

Frogley shudders.

"Frogley. Frogley, Frogley." I spew his name. I say it a thousand times in three seconds. I graze my hand on his arm and it comes back red and he makes a noise, this awful whimper.

"Stop that," I choke, my eyes burning. "You're fine. We'll just get you off the road. You're gonna be okay..."

I wrap my arms around him so I can drag him off the road, but I don't have the strength to lift him and my sweater gets red. I have to let him go. Instead, I rip my sweater off, gently pulling his arm up and wrapping it around to stop the bleeding as much as I can. He's crying, whimpering and it's my fault.