I remembered that night, conjured it back into my consciousness from where it was buried, beneath the heavy weight of passed days. I remembered the road that stretched before us into the twisting darkness of the countryside, and I remembered that you were crying. I had been crying, also: he'd bit my pretty red heart in two. The night above us was so densely black, barely pockmarked with stars, and the country still and slow, sleeping around us. No cars passed as we walked, a few empty teenagers with blood that tasted of alcohol and the smell of stale smoke in our hair. Between us, chasms divided the earth and threatened to swallow us whole, our feet brushed the edges as we walked. On the brink of life, tired eyed and bursting with pain. He was silent mostly, but he told you to think of the best day of your life to stop you from crying. He hadn't cared about me, and I told the dead night that I hadn't had a 'best day'. No one heard. Only the darkness that stretched around me, submerging me in its depths listened, it swallowed my words and they passed, like tiny bubbles into the unknown.
Minutes, hours, years later, we reached his house and curled ourselves on the floor like children, half grown, suspended between the innocence of youth and the void of adulthood. I was fiercely alone, and beside me, the abyss grew, it's darkness spread, and, as I slept, it began to engulf me, it sucked me into the Real World, gasping for air and searching for light.
this is about what was probably the worst night of my life. or rather, the aftermath of it. ha ha ha
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