clean

twelve;

I am trapped.

The walls are closing in around me, a purple haze of smoke is rising from the cracks.

The floor catches fire and I can't breathe, can't breathe, my family is screaming but I can't reach them-

I wake up screaming, my cheeks wet with tears, my throat raw, my hairline dripping with sweat. I am alone in my apartment, laying on the floor, the ashes of a presmoked joint on a pan by my head. Slowly, I stand up, minding the fact that I'm wobbly and nauseous. I bend down and pick up the ashtray, then chuck it at the wall. It clatters to the floor, smearing the black down the wall and staining the carpet.

I scream out of frustration and buckle in the middle of the floor, covering my head.

It's not fair.