Too Pretty

Trigger warning

I can’t believe I know how I’m going to die.

This was the pervasive thought in my mind as I stared blankly at the tan floor-mat of the passenger seat where my head was being held down. The passing streetlights cast a blinking orange glow and the falling snow speckled shadows across the quickly changing patterns. Was that blood on the floor or was it a stain from the coffee I’d spilled the week before? Or dried slush from the bottom of the boot of a friend to whom I’d given a ride so they wouldn’t have to take the bus? Probably Sorel or Merell- one of those Minnesota winter classics, with their deep grooves that track in all the elements.

“You’re too pretty for me to let you go,” he said, after I begged, sobbing. In exchange for me, I’d offered up my shitty Mazda with enthusiasm, giving him the hard sell, trying to get him amped up on the old rust-bucket, like Oprah furnishing her audience with gifts. Look under your seats! It’s a car!

My purse contained the eighty-three dollars I’d made…