Intoxicated

III. Me

A/N: Sorry about the late update, the picture is Stella. Yes, that's Hailee Steinfeld, imagine her with black hair and, of course, black eyes.

*****

She turns the radio down a bit. We hum along to it still.

"I used to sing to this all the time. With Rossi." I say.

"Who's that?"

"My older sister."

"...Oh."

"She's in England."

"So she's safe, then?" She says.

I think to myself whether she is concerned for me, or for herself, or if she's concerned at all.

I find myself looking into the side view mirror, the first time I've looked at my reflection.

Oh my god, wow.

My brown eyes, dark enough to be mistaken for black, stare at the mirror as if they're unable to believe that the sickly boy staring back is me.

Stringy, greasy layers of black cover my forehead. My finger touches my bottom lip, so chapped it's started to bleed. My nails have grown in length and uncleanliness – so has my face, which feels and looks disgusting.

Unable to study myself any further, I look back at the girl next to me.

"You're right, I do look horrible." I try to laugh but it's throaty and painful.

"Where we're going - there should be enough supplies, but just in case there aren't, I'll get some."

"Thanks." I mumble. "Where are we going?"

She raises an eyebrow, "Just somewhere."
"Okay."

She starts humming to the radio.

I look at my lap – this is awkward.

"So, what are you planning to do – you know with me?"

"Take you home," She lifts a shoulder, "To your family, Rossi – just make sure you're safe. And that the Cartel is off your back."

Mentioning the Cartel gives me goosebumps.

My mind drifts off to somewhere far more peaceful.

"What you thinking about?"

"Home," I reply, without missing a beat. "Doesn't everyone?"

She shrugs again, answering my question. Except I don't know what it means.

"So, Romeo," She says, "Where's home?"

I try and remember the address, but my head starts to hurt.

"Do you know of a hotel? The Hotel Hacienda-?"

"-De Mexicali? Of course."

"Yeah, just drop me off there, it's about 20 minutes away from my house."

"You live in Progreso?" I nod, and she scoffs. "Talk about wrong place, wrong time. Not to worry you, sweetie, but Progreso – it's right in the middle."

"...Of what?"

I dread her answer:

"Of two... 'stations', let's call them. Of two different Cartel stations – ever heard of the Sinaloa or the Michoacán?"