here without you

58

I spent the rest of the holidays on my own, alone. I tell my parents I'm at Jade's, while I tell Jade I'm at home, too sick to see her or anyone else.

In reality, I drive around in my car without having any destination at all. I stop at random places, where I reread Olive's books and smoke tons of cigarettes. I ignore all messages which I get - most of them from Jade and Nate -, and I try my best to ignore the feelings inside of me as well.

It's Sunday, late in the evening, and I'm sitting in my car, parked in the parking lot of some supermarket. My phone rings. It's Jade. I don't get it.

I stay a while longer there, reading a book but failing at it. The book is in my hands, my eyes are on the pages, but my mind is somewhere else. I keep forgetting what I have read, and no matter how often I reread a sentence, it doesn't stay in my mind. It feels like my mind is filled with everything but the words in front of me, yet nothing at all.

I realise it's pointless, and I decide to drive back home.

The speed limit is 70 mph. I'm driving 60 mph because that is how I am. Always doing what is right. Always sticking to the rules. Always staying on the safe side. And suddenly I'm tired of that. I get this urge to push the gas pedal harder, so I do. I tell myself if I drive faster, I will be able to escape from this. I will be able to not feel what I am feeling now. I will feel alive.

I'm driving 70, 80, and suddenly 90. And because 90 isn't enough, I push harder. I want to push the car to 100 because 100 is 100 and only that will be enough. So I listen to myself.

I'm driving 100 mph, and I should be feeling something - adrenaline, fear, panic -, but I'm not.

I feel nothing.

Behind me I hear sirens, and in the driving mirror I see a police car. By now I should be scared, except I'm not. I'm not a bit scared because I'm not feeling anything at all.

I stop speeding and pull over. The police car stops behind me and out of it steps a policemen. He knocks at the car window. I let it down. He looks at me, his eyebrows scrunched together.

"You might be driving some fancy Porsche, but that definitely doesn't give you the right to drive as fast as you want to, young lady."

"I know."

He stares at me for a second, then says, "Do you know that the speed limit here is 70 mph?"

"Yes. I do."

"And do you know that you are driving around 100 mph?"

"Yes. I do."

He just blinks at me a couple of times, clearly perplexed about my lack of emotions. He clears his throat and asks me to show him my driver's license. I get my wallet, pull it out of it and hand it to him. His eyes flick from my driver's license to my face, back to the license, and then back to my face again.

"Roze Josephine Foxton," he says. "Is there any chance you're related to Arthur Foxton?"

"Yes. I'm his daughter."

The one who is still alive.

He nods. His face has taken that one look I hate. Pity and discomfort. He gives me back my driver's license. He looks to his left, to his right, and then at me.

"Don't do stupid shit like that again," he says. "Stay safe, alright?"

He doesn't wait for me to respond. He gives me another nod, and then he walks off, back to his car.

Special treatment, I think. Special treatment for the poor girl with the dead sister. Special treatment because I'm damaged and fragile, and I should be treated differently.