Whiplash

Our stir crazy heads were filled with pop hits from the the last decade. My clothes were still a little bit wet from the drunk boy who spilled his “punch” all over me. To fill the silence, we turned up our volume to sixty and blasted our favorite pop hits, to keep the night alive. It’s something about lying and sneaking around that keeps the adrenaline pumping. My dad hadn’t ok’d me driving to Forest Heights in the rain, but what he doesn’t know can’t kill him. I’d just have to tell him the dance ran long.

My head was spinning as fast as my car was driving. Two hands on the wheel and in the middle of my lane. Then it hit me. “It” being the car. I never knew what aluminum on aluminum sounded like. It bent as easily as foil wrapping itself around food, crinkling through every piece of my body.

Now my shirt is stained with red “punch” and my own bodily form of “red punch.” All caused by the same drunk boy.

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