I don't know.
I can't breathe.
I lean back,
It gets worse.
My feet are actively feeling about an empty plastic bag placed below the glove compartment in front of me, their movement grows manic as I faintly notice that I seem to enjoy.
I don't want to go back home.
I sloppily and slowly peel off my shoes and shoot them sideways over to the driver's seat.
Then, just as sloppily, I slide my sorry head backwards again.
I might not need air as badly as everyone always insists humans do.
I close my eyes, but it's not working.
In fact, my vision grows sharper.
I need some water and I can find none.
Twisting in my seat, I accidentally make something crack.
Tears suddenly begin to pile up behind my eyelids.
I don't want to go back home.
The world is viscous outside this car.
The world is the sharp and puzzled inside it.
I want none of this.
I can't think.
All this smoke and it can't even choke me.
I don't want to go back home.
The city is asleep and the forest surrounding it seems never-ending. She has a pair of rubies fixed in her eye sockets, yet the only times those eyes would not appear dim were during instances such as this - a chilly Wednesday evening, she's driving, her parents are certain she's on a shift, the volume of the radio is cut to a whisper.
Midway to her usual parking spot for such nights she decides to pull over, and that she's far enough from the neighborhood for the distance to do.
She reaches into her backpack, pulling out a plastic bag and a sly grin.
Her eyes close and her eyes open and then all of a sudden her lungs are in her body no longer, and neither are her heart, nor her stomach. And her legs are never-ending, and she's levitating, and the world outside of her car is terrifying and vicious, and miles away from the car her feet are dancing on their own, and on the back seat there's a door leading to a world where she doesn't exist.
And her throat is dry.
And her body is sore.
But she'll be alright tomorrow.
