I don't remember how I got here, in my car. The hum of my thoughts was too loud to remember grabbing my keys and walking down the driveway. Backing up took no thought at all. Simple mechanic motions link me to my car.
Check the mirrors. Put her in reverse. Let off the break. I drove down my driveway and punched the music off, uncharacteristically. All I have to do is drive. I have never been the kid to just get up and leave, but lately, more and more excuses to leave have drifted into my head and refused to vacate until I echo them to my mom. She was too busy to notice how often I was gone. My car felt safe despite the myriad of statistics proving otherwise. I don't remember when it started, but it persisted while struggling to pay attention in class, while trying desperately to eat, while begging Hypnos to let me sleep. It was deep within my stomach, crawling at my insides, whoring for my attention. I thought about my life before the behemoth feeling appeared as I turned onto a main road. I wasn't bubbling over with happiness, but it was easier to point out the good things in the world; now, there seems to be a hazy film, an uncolored coloring book. I remember staying up to study, eating lunch, listening to music, dancing, going out. Caring. I remember my mom making comments about my belly showing, I remember worrying about how I looked, I remember drinking like I was trying to prove something.
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