Playing with Fire

West

November 17th, 2015.

Seventeen years old.

The best opportunity to kill myself presented itself on that dark road.

It was pitch-black. A thin layer of ice coated the road. I was driving back from my Aunt Carrie’s, sucking on a green candy cane. Aunt Carrie sent my parents food, groceries, and prayers on a weekly basis. It felt crap to admit it, but both my folks couldn’t drag themselves out of bed—with or without her religious praying.

Pine trees lined the winding road to our farm, rolling over a steep hill that made the engine groan with effort.

I knew it would look like the perfect accident.

No one would assume any differently.

Just a terrible coincidence, so close to the other tragedy that had struck the St. Claire household.

I could practically envision the headline tomorrow morning in the local newspaper.

Boy, 17, hits deer on Willow Pass Road. Dies immediately.

The deer was standing right there, in the middle of the road, idly staring at my vehicle as I approached at an escalating speed.

I didn’t flash my headlights. I didn’t pump the brakes.

The deer continued staring as I floored it, my knuckles white as I choked the steering wheel.

The car zipped through the ice so fast it shook from the speed, skidding forward. I could no longer control it. The wheel was not in sync with the tires.

Come on, come on, come on.

I squeezed my eyes shut and let it happen, my teeth slamming together.

The car began to cough, slowing down, even as I pressed my foot harder onto the gas pedal. I popped my eyes open.

No.

The car was decelerating, each inch it ate slower than the previous one.

No, no, no, no, no.

The pickup died three feet away from the deer, coming to a full stop.

The dumb animal finally decided to blink and amble away from the road, its hooves snapping against the ice with gentle clicks.

Stupid fucking deer.

Stupid fucking car.

Stupid fucking me, for not hurling myself out of the goddamn pickup when I still had the chance, right off the cliff.

It was quiet for a few minutes. Just me and the deceased pickup and my beating heart, before a scream tore from my throat.

“Fuckkkkkk!”

I punched the steering wheel. Once, twice … three times before my knuckles started bleeding. I braced my foot over the console and ripped the steering wheel out of the pickup, dumping it on the passenger seat and raking my fingers down my face.

My lungs burned and my blood dripped all over the seats as I tore everything inside the pickup. I ripped the radio from its hub, throwing it out the window. I smashed the windshield with my foot. Broke the glove compartment. I wrecked the pickup like the deer couldn’t.

And yet, I was still alive.

My heart was still beating.

My phone rang, its cheerful tune taunting me.

It rang again and again and fucking again.

I tore it from my pocket and checked who it was. A miracle? A heavenly intervention? An unlikely savior who actually gave a fuck? Who could it be?

Scam Likely

Of course.

No one gave half a fuck, even when they said they did. I boomeranged my cell into the woods then got out of the vehicle and started my ten-mile walk back to my parents’ farm.

Truly fucking hoping I’d bump into a bear and let it finish the goddamn job.

Present.

Grace

“Best nineties invention: curtain bangs versus slap-bracelets. You have five seconds to decide. Five.”

Karlie sucked on her margarita slushie, eyeballing her phone. Damp clouds of heat sailed over the food truck’s ceiling. Sweat soaked through my pink hoodie. We were in the midst of a Texan heatwave, even though we were a few months shy of summer.

My heavy coat of makeup was dripping down my FILA shoes in orange spurts. Good thing we closed five minutes ago. I hated hanging outside the house with less than two thick layers of foundation caked on my face.

I was planning on a cold shower, hot food, and setting the air-con on blast.

“Four,” Karlie counted in the background as I scribbled a want ad. My body was angled to the window, in case late-night customers trickled in.

Karlie was officially cutting back on her shifts, something her mom and owner of the food truck, Mrs. Contreras, wasn’t thrilled about. Obviously, I was sad I wouldn’t be working with her as often anymore. Karlie had been my best friend since we’d both wobbled about in diapers in each other’s backyards. There was even a picture of us somewhere—probably Mrs. Contreras’ living room—sitting on matching purple pots, butt naked, grinning at the camera like we’d just unfurled the great secrets of the universe.

I was worried whoever was going to replace Karlie—Karl to me—wasn’t going to appreciate my sarcastic nature and surly approach to life. But I also completely understood why she had to cut back. Karl’s class load was insane. And that was without all the extra internships she’d picked up to decorate her CV with work experience in journalism.