It’s 7pm,
Late-August,
Late 2000s,
Massachusetts.
I’m lying on the carpet.
My door is locked.
CDs are playing.
I am safe for now, but not for long.
My windows are open and the sound of crickets is competing with my ceiling fan.

The air is sickly sweet, and slightly smokey, and suffocating, in a way only late August can bring.
Like a death and a new beginning, colliding head on.
Bending and breaking everything in its path against their will.
You go where I make you go.
You move how I make you move.
You do not complain.

It is grief, and fear, and pure apathy.
Disconnection and misdirection.
Negotiation and disassociation.

I am the only person on earth.
No one else exists.
I do not cry out in pain.
No one is there to hear it.