Based on the song "Life on Mars" by David Bowie...
Someone is killing girls in the little town of Nowhere, South Dakota and they all look like Fiona Mars.
Fiona has a secret she can't quite remember. A secret her father, the Sheriff, is trying hard...
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There's a fractured second when a choice stops being a backseat passenger and becomes the driver. At which point that choice has grown up and flourished—like clematis on a porch rail or a kid leaving kindergarten—into a decision. But my decisions aren't like that. They're not children crossing the bridge into adolescents. They're not flowers in full bloom. They're hijackers. Seizing control and accelerating away from that long bridge and off a cliff, instead. One moment, I'm debating what sits on my right and left shoulder and the next I've got a gun (which wasn't sitting on either shoulder) and there's blood on the rug and I'm pointing it at someone I've known my whole life.
I can't blame my subconscious for it; she doesn't have a body. But my body is nothing without me, and sometimes I think it's angry about that arrangement because it was my hand that picked up the gun and my foot that kicked in Door Number Three and I never once thought, "Fiona, now is a good time to be a hero."
My subconscious isn't stupid. If anything she's above average, cultivating the rows of brain matter in my head with guilt and regret and hate. A lot of hate. But, while I act stupid about a lot of things, I know I'm not THAT stupid.
I know I'm not a hero.
Heroes don't get high and kill somebody with their car.
Heroes don't let their daddies lie about it.
So it wasn't me that kicked in Door Number Three holding a gun from the trunk of a stolen police cruiser. It was just my finger that pulled the trigger...
Choices become decisions when you change their tense, from choose to chose then bang bang bang. Up and down rotate with the couch cushions. And gray was always white before.
