I stood in the doorway of the garage. The light from the house broke through, crossing over my shoulders and legs. For a second, I seemed immaculate. I heard myself breathing and the wind crashing against the house. Not drunk….just alive. Did I need to convince myself? The ice rattled when I placed the glass against the ground. The gin became a trade off, resting where the steel I had picked up spent most of its life, useless. The glass made me clever- it looked as if nothing had been moved out of order, as if everything was there.
In my hand a cold piece of steel suffocated. The thin layer of frost, borne by the coldness of the garage, around the metal melted in the palm of my hand. And though the winter became alive in the garage, I felt nothing. I smiled. Because I didn't care.
With each swing, harder and harder, the car began to bleed. Red patches formed over my knuckles, encouraging me to dig deeper. I didn't hear the glass from the headlights shatter, or the hood cave-in with each blow. I let my breath go in sync with the movement of my arm. I sucked in more air to create a greater force. And when the front bumper crashed against the cement, I became motionless. There was sweat on my forehead and I didn't know how it got there. This fucking car…is all I heard myself say.
I would've driven the car that night. I would've driven it.

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