Page 37 of Her Sloth

I eat food I can’t remember an hour later.

Sleep.

Wake.

Rinse.

Repeat.

At the end of the week, I stare at the bathroom mirror and box into it until my knuckles are bloody, accompanied by silent screams no one will ever hear.

I curl up in the bed, but it doesn’t help.

The room's width makes me sick.

Everything in my life makes me sick.

I take the elevator downstairs and sit in the Mustang with my legs drawn up. It’s the closest to feeling something.

20 million poisoned humans, 8 million children.

400 million without water because of my father’s greed.

19 million homeowners who would lose everything.

40 million fed and saved souls because he thought that would change something.

The numbers haunt my mind.

Whatever I do, I will hurt millions of people.

So I just sit here in the car, doing nothing. Because doing nothing is better than doing the wrong thing.

I pinch my arm so hard the marks of my nails stay blue.

“We don’t give up. We race. That’s how we deal. How we survive. How we die.” Cass's words come back to me.

We race.

We ride or die.

We ride.

We die.

Yes, we die.

I slip my legs down and start the Mustang’s motor. Drive all the way to Red Hook, find them where I found them last week.

I’m let in.

Park.

Have a beer.

And another.

See someone doing coke.