Opening the car door, she slipped into the Porsche ignoring the ignition. Her first priority was the glove box, opening it, she searched every cranny inside the small space looking for something, anything to take to kill her never ending thoughts. Maybe that’s why Spencer came running outside, heartbroken and rejected, she needed her best friend to hold her, promising everything would be okay- those tears had nothing to do with her.

They were for the Guitar player.

Slamming the glove box shut, she turned on the car and placed her hands on the wheel, putting the Porsche in reverse. She finally had a reason to go home. There was nothing to take in her car. Her thoughts revolved around her bedroom, taking her under the bed to the shoebox, she craved whatever filled the clear plastic sandwich bag hiding inside. There were few pills, but a variety of them, a beautiful mixture of pain killers, muscle relaxers, and anti anxiety medication. She was going to take a little of everything, crushing and then mixing them together, she decided to snort them like coke.

It was going to be a trip.

Reaching out, she turned on the radio in an attempt to ease her anxiety. Her free leg bounced up and down excitedly as her other foot steadily pushed down on the gas, refraining from going the speed she wanted to go. The one that’d take her home in under 5 minutes. She was a desperate wreck and her stomach churned as she licked her lips stopping at a red light. She hated stopping, she needed to go, her body begging for a hit of something.

She needed a cigarette.

Turning her head, she eyed the driver in the car next to her. A soccer mom. She scrunched her face in disgust and turned up the music, hating the stereotypical house wife. The ones who drove mini vans full of loud obnoxious kids. Mother’s who tucked their children in at night, fondly smiling down at them before kneeling to kiss their brow, wishing them a good night, adding ‘I love you’ before leaving the room. It made her sick. Didn’t they know the kid would grow up to disappoint them anyway? Why not skip the bullshit and treat them like shit from the beginning? Her sweaty palms gripped the steering wheel more firmly as she switched lanes, moving into the one with less traffic.