Take Me There

I look up

and I force myself

to look out the windshield.

I try to focus on anything but the trees

and the other cars

turning into colorful blurs around us.

I look at the little bug

making it's way across the glass.

I look at the little smudges

that formed around the wipers.

I look at the little Batman sticker

that I had stuck on the day Will bought the truck.

I look at everything but outside.

Whenever I look outside

I remember something I don't want to.

I remember darkness,

and shouting,

and being tossed around like I was on a roller coaster.

It's a horrible memory.

One that keeps me from sitting in the driver's seat,

keeps me awake at night,

appears in my nightmares when I do sleep,

one that makes me wish I could just close my eyes

and float a

w

a

y.

From out of nowhere

I hear screeching tires.

I see bright headlights.

I feel breaking glass on my face.

I almost scream.

But I look over

and it's Will, gripping the steering wheel,

tapping his foot annoyingly against the floor,

clutching my hand like his only purpose is to hold my hand

and keep me from floating away.

It's him next to me.

Not Charlotte.

So I swallow my scream.

I use every ounce of my strength

to force it down

where it lies

stuck in my throat,

choking me.

It feels as though

I'm trying to contain an explosion.

It hurts.

But at least I'm feeling something.