The Things That Never Come

Will drives me home.

He usually drives me places these days,

in his big, boyish, blue pickup truck,

because my car is still being repaired.

Even if I had my car back

I wouldn't drive it.

I still get flashbacks

when I sit in the driver's seat of a car.

A week after I came home from the hospital

I had tried to drive Johnny's car

but I didn't even make it out of the driveway.

I haven't even thought about driving since then.

Will and I are silent.

Usually we're talking, laughing, and messing around

but today

neither of us even move our mouths.

There just isn't anything to say.

I keep my eyes down on my lap

and stare at my skirt

where there's wrinkles

from when I was gripping the hem so tightly in my fist.

I can't look up

because I can't look 

out the windows or the windshield.

So I just look at my legs.

I don't have nails anymore

because I chewed them all down to the nub.

It's a nasty habit.

I had managed to stop for awhile.

But it started up again

three weeks ago.

I look at the chipped remains

of my green nail polish.

I rub my fingers together

then pinch my skin hard

where there's a bruise from the crash.

It hurts

but after awhile I don't feel it anymore,

so I pinch harder and harder

until my fingers are shaking.

But I still don't cry.

My lip trembles

and my breath gets shaky

but I don't cry.

Will sees me

pinching my skin,

trembling,

shaking,

not crying,

and he picks up my hand

and keeps it trapped in his.

"You don't have to cry, Riley,"

he says.

"It's all right."

I don't answer.

I wonder though

if it really is all right.

It doesn't feel all right.

It feels very, very

w r o n g.

I wonder if maybe

there's just something wrong

with me.