Toxic.

My bare feet on the wet pavement send up beads of gutter water. The droplets collide with the flesh of my exposed ankles, and I shudder at the sudden coldness. I run down the empty street, and the silence of the city pervades my soul and fills me with a gut wrenching loneliness. I run until my lungs scream for relief and my calves’ spasm in bitter protest, refusing to propel my body any further. I slow to an uneasy walk, coming to rest near an abandoned car. Shattered glass from a broken window paves the ground in dangerous beauty.

I cautiously step up to the broken window and peer inside. The car has been ransacked: the radio, the seats, everything that makes up a car has been stripped away. Only an empty shell remains. In the illumination of the streetlights, the broken windshield glistens with moisture from the night’s earlier rain. The spider web-like pattern of glass threatens to shatter with the slightest touch.

I turn away from the car and look around at my surroundings. For the first time tonight I am conscious of where my journey has taken me. My old high school stands mercilessly unassuming across the street. Its hushed secrets beckon me to revisit the past and bathe in the anguish that I both crave and despise within the same breath.

I walk across the road, suddenly aware of the solitary sound of my rapidly increasing heartbeat. Through a heavy-chained door, I see the artificial lives of everyday people. The school slogan; no doubt some loosely translated "you are master of your destiny" Latin phrase used to stir the aggressions of hormone-laden teens into a manic and hostile crowd of originality-Nazis', is on proud display in the school's courtyard. Under the devious slogan, a picture of a Trojan warrior greets all who dare enter. (The irony of having a condom talking head as a school mascot is seemingly lost on the insensible abstinence-preaching school officials.)

I walk around to the back of the school, searching for a way inside. Alas, a neglectful warden of teenage vomit has forgotten to lock a gymnasium door. I slip inside, and am hit with the familiar stench of a school locker room: the trite scent of gym socks, rubber, and dirty tumbling mats. I walk across the smooth faux-pine floor, and I sit on the bleachers. Looking around the gym, I am struck by the strident quiet that greets my solitary being. No rallies, no cheerleaders, no fights over best friends/boyfriends. The barrenness now eradicates the intimidation I once felt here, long ago.

"I need to go home..."

I whisper to myself, not wanting to cause an echo. I stand and make my way back outside, into the brisk night. I breathe in deep, trying to fill my body with calm, but all I feel is numb. I wonder if my mother and father know that I am gone. What would they say if they knew I was out here? I look down at my hands and see that they are dirty. I look them over, unfamiliar with their lines. The knuckles are scabbed and blood has dried deep russet along the backs of my palms. I stretch out my fingers, and the scabs pull the skin painfully. I do this until a car passes me by; its taillights shine fluorescent in the dark. I walk a few steps, and break into a sprint. I am running to run, running away, running, running, running, running!! I gasp for air and pump my legs as hard as I can, as hard as I shouldn't. I am pushing myself to the brink. I do not stop until I see white shapes begin to form in front of my eyes. I throw myself onto soggy grass, I am home.

Lying in the grass, I stare up at the sky. There is too much pollution in the city to see many stars. I search for the North star, search for the Big Dipper. I try to keep my eyes open; too afraid I will not want to open them once they are closed. I blink rapidly, opening and closing each eye like a camera. I can feel the wetness of the lawn soaking through my thin clothing. My mind is racing, betraying my wants and replaying scenes from earlier in the day.

"I'm sorry...but its better that I tell you. It wouldn't be fair to you if I didn't."

Spoken as if he deserved a fucking award. All I could do was look out the window.

"You deserve better, you really do."

He's right. But I don't want better. There is something so patronizing about that statement, "you deserve better." What people deserve and what they end up with is rarely the same thing. Because what I deserve is probably out fucking whoever they deserve, and the cycle of probably-maybe-never relationships goes on into eternity.

"I only care about myself, I don't think I could ever care about anyone else...I told you I'd probably end up hurting you."

Fuck you! Why didn't you tell me sooner? Why did you let me care about you? But... you did tell me you’d probably hurt me, so thanks for the warning, I guess. Gee, you're swell! I want to scream at you and tell you to go fuck yourself...but I don't. Instead, I shut down. I crawl inside myself and cut away everything I believe is wrong with me. I stir about inside my mind, screaming and blaming.

"This isn't right...this isn't right..."

He repeats this sentence as if I will tell him its okay, that it is, in fact, right. And maybe it is. We are too different, he and I. He likes Hemmingway, I like Steinbeck. He knows nothing about sports, while I can recite stats like the pledge of allegiance. He thrives off of pain, and I'm convinced distance is safer than crashing. So what brought us together?

I shut my eyes and try to remember cheat codes for Grand Theft Auto, try to remember Hank Aaron's final ERA, try to remember everything and/or anything besides the curves of his face. I pull at the grass, take the blades in my hands and rip them from the earth. I smother the bent and helpless foliage in my clenched fists. I hold so tightly I begin to press my fingernails into the palms of my hands. I bleed crimson.

I quietly enter the forced comfort of my parent's home, and retreat to the blinding white of the bathroom. In the light, I stare into the mirror at an unknown figure. Violet shadows are revealed under hollow eyes. Lips part, dry and pale, hungry and deserted. I turn on the faucet, watch as the clearness meets the filth of my hands, the cold stings the wounds. Blood smears the porcelain, rose-colored puddles form in small globules before disappearing down the drain. I am envious of their departure.

I turn off the water and examine the crescent shapes my nails made on my palms. My entire body aches and I crave the isolation of a hot shower. I let it run until the entire room is filled with a veil of steam. I strip and step into the scalding solace of the water. I let it rush over me and ease my throbbing muscles. I sob, feeling protected in the thunderous volume of the water. I cry for me, for her, for heartbreak...but mostly, I cry because I am implausibly afraid to be alone.

I crawl into bed and envelop myself in cotton safety. I shut my eyes, the lashes still moist with tears. I look up at my ceiling, watch as the darkness struggles to maintain its hold on the city, but it is a losing battle, as the morning is inevitable. My limbs vibrate with the days catastrophes. A pale grey overtakes the room, shining dusty light over the bed. The night concedes, and I fall into a restless sleep.