Same old roads. Same old fucking roads. I’ve passed them each four, five times. Lake Flora, Lake Helena, no lakes in sight, only J. M. Dickenson Road, Glenwood Road, the same old fucking gas station and the same old fucking trailer park.
There’s no use calling anyone. I can help you if you’d like. But I can’t give them anything to do so.
I always get lost here. I always think turning right is right. I always end up spit back somewhere else. I am convinced the Key Peninsula exists solely to fuck with me, to suck me into wormholes and
A deer stares at me from the side of the road and I burst into tears. A fifth of tequila, a fifth of vodka, lay unopened at my feet. It’s been hours since I left. My arms are very tired.
Here is the information you need, messages my dad.
No. You don’t get it. I’m not going. I want to go home.
Ok. Drive safely. Love you.
Something broke. The pack of Diet Coke splits apart, rolls around in my trunk, hitting the sides with a dull metallic thunk. I’m not leaving here the same, says the man in the mask. How cliché my vision is. Feathers and blue jeans, he stands, waiting for me to get out. I drive in the other lane to pass him.
I see the car and I don’t even think. Quick jerk left. So many things I can blame this on, exhaustion, a seizure, loneliness like a tic. Get out of your car and come see me.
She just lays there. Smoke whispers out of our crushed hoods.
I get out. Hello!
No, see, I reached out. Your turn.
I almost got in an accident here before. Maybe I only just saw someone almost get hit here. It seems to blend interchangeably. I’m not in an accident, get out, get out, your turn!
She sits up, without looking, and drives away. My car is totaled. And somehow, I’m at the gas station again.