|Straight and Fast
Author: jensonluvsu PM
Alaska's drive.Rated: Fiction T - English - Alaska - Words: 831 - Reviews: 24 - Favs: 44 - Follows: 3 - Published: 11-21-11 - Status: Complete - id: 7571257
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
A/N: HOLY GUACAMOLE. It's been ages since I've posted anything on here. No excuses, just life.
I bring to you, my first attempt at Alaska. I did take a lot of stylistic liberties with this one; the grammar is wonky and just barely this side of awful. It was intentional. She was drunk. Also, the second person. Like it or leave it?
Also! The song I had on repeat while writing this was "Losing Your Memory" by Ryan Star.
You're drunk. Hideously, rip-roaringly drunk. You shouldn't be driving- fuck, you shouldn't even be walking down the street. But you don't care. There is so much more to worry about than a DUI.
You've forgotten. It was your fault, and you've forgotten. You killed her, and you've forgotten. You are a sick and terrible person- a veritable fuck up. You've forgotten your dead mother.
You drive. Trying to outrun the rising sun. Trying to outrun the ghosts creeping up in your rearview mirror. They're both gaining on you. You've got miles to go… the words draw up a memory. The Colonel. A poem. Robert Frost. And, through the haze, it comes to you.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep… You don't know if you're saying the words or just thinking them, but they still remind you of the Colonel. And he reminds you of Pudge. And the taste of him on your lips- cigarettes and booze and boy and all the things that you shouldn't love.
You know you've fucked things up there, too. Pudge is sweet, innocent. Too pure and too good for a fuck up like yourself. And then, Jake. The only person outside of the Creek who actually likes you- Alaska the girl, Alaska the person, Alaska the bitch, and Alaska the fuck up. His flowers bounce along in the back seat, and at that moment, you hate yourself.
You hate yourself for everything. For loving him. For loving Pudge, but not in the way he needed. For forgetting. For not being able to do anything. For remembering, for carrying around all that shit for so long, only to forget it the one time it will do anybody any good. You hate yourself for loving that last day, with Pudge and Takumi and Lara and the Colonel, when you should have been hunkering down into the depths of your own remorse and self-hatred. You hate yourself for all of it and for so much more. There are so many more reasons to hate yourself- reasons that the booze is keeping abstract.
You're trying to outrun them all- the voices and the sun and the end of the world- and you just push harder on the accelerator. Blue Citrus hurtles down the road. She's quickly reaching her limit. You push harder.
Thoughts blur. The road blurs. The only thing you can see with clarity is the end point. The destination. The plain little headstone. The plot of earth not at all unlike the ones to the left and to the right. You push harder still.
There's a bend in the road. You shouldn't be going this fast. You accelerate through the turn.
Seconds creep by like hours, and you're not moving fast enough. Minutes fly by, and you're almost there. The dashboard clock is lying. You convince yourself. It has to be. The sky isn't losing the inky blackness. You convince yourself. It can't be. Your foot is lead on the gas pedal.
You aren't going to make it. You aren't and you know it and you keep driving. You're racing the sky. You're losing. Terribly.
You are awful. You're a fuck up, an oxygen thief… You hate yourself more than ever. Mom. Marya. Pudge. Jake. The Colonel. Lara. Takumi. Mom. Dad. Everybody you've ever let down. Their names hang in the air like smoke, as thick and unpleasant as your first cigarette.
Bolivar. The Labyrinth. Suffering. It's all so poignantly real, and so painful.
Damn it! How will I ever get out of this labyrinth? You pound at the steering wheel. You scream and you pound and you do everything you can to just show the universe how fucked up everything is.
The tears make it hard to see. The alcohol makes it hard to see. The rage and hatred and fury and the boiling in your chest make it hard to see.
But between it all- the tears and the alcohol and the rage and the hatred and the fury and the boiling- you can still see the road. You can see the headlights.
You don't think. You just accelerate.
Straight and fast.
A/N 2: So… um? How was it? Please review… I want to know if I'm doing this beautiful book and this beautiful girl any sort of justice.