“It’s going to be okay, it’s going to be okay.”

“We have to do something.” I almost laugh hearing it, it couldn’t have come from me…what the fuck can I do?

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*******3 months later******

The smell of the ocean and old spice filling the air around me. A low buzz of electric guitars and the gravely voice of some singer who died living her life. The streets change slowly at first, the houses small and close together. A blur of shops and people who think only of themselves and I want to run from this moving prison. Thoughts of the beach of dark nights with nothing but the sand to keep me warm. The morning coming far too fast and I just want to go home.

To that stupid house with the broken back step, with the bright blue door. I miss that the most about the house, the fucking stupid door. I can feel him move in the seat next to me, his hand drumming along to the music. An old faded scar across the back of it, and I wonder what he was like. I wonder if his eyes were different, if his voice was softer…if he was lost like us.

“You’re going to like this place…it’ll be different.” he said that before and all I really care about is this little hole in the leather of the seats. “I’ve known Cutch since she was your age I trust her.”

Cutch…what the fuck type of name is that? The car slows and the blur of the outside world comes into focus, and I find a white house with a black car in the driveway. That fear that holds you so tight that it hurts to breathe that makes your blood run cold, and your feet itch with the need to run finding its way around my body.

“Well let’s go,” he opens the door walking slowly to the front. “Grab your things, come on.”

He swings those keys around his finger, that cold smile on his face. He leans against the front of the car, and I know that I have no choice but to go. The heavy pull of the bag on my shoulder and I follow him looking for any way out of here. There is no gate, no bars to keep me here just a front door and a couple miles from the beach.