When I was sixteen, I caught a ride home from work with a psychopath. I was tired and smelly. (I worked at a steakhouse) and all I wanted to do was get home and take a shower. I didn’t know that the guy was a psychopath. But what else do you call it when someone laughs as they speed up to hit a rabbit that’s hopping across the road. (I can still see the dying rabbit flopping in the middle of the street.)
There was another person in the car and she thought the whole thing was completely fine. No big deal. (She liked the guy), but I was crying in the backseat and wondering if the world is crazy. Spoiler alert: the world is crazy, and somehow, maddeningly, I’ve found myself stuck in the car again.
I know what you’re thinking: Buckle up.
Also, someone who doesn’t like the guy should probably grab for the wheel.
I’m sorry to break it to you, but I am not that person. I’m not strong enough or fast enough, and the truth is I’m tired of buckling up. I want out of the car. Sometimes I imagine myself sixteen again, but this time, I bum a ride from someone who isn’t a psychopath.
Or, I walk home.
It’s not that far. Maybe two miles? And only a small dark stretch through the woods. I make up stories in my head to bide the time. I take deep breaths and keep my eyes on the moon above the trees.
When I come across the rabbit flopping, I scoop her up in my jacket. I can’t always save her, but I try.
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