Written by Melissa Booey
You’ve gotta give the people what they want. You’d better yell something good.
I sat there and tried not to get mad. I figured, “well, we’ve made it this far, anyway, suppose we can make it a bit further.” I’m sure my buzz and batch of benzos I’d been unknowingly slipped were wearing off, but I know I looked directly at the bone. It was protruding from my wrist and had split open through my “YoHo” tattoo. The wound was slightly held in tourniquet by my elastic hair tie, and as I raised it beneath the moonlight to examine it closer, I laughed. I laughed and screamed at the Escalade who put on their brake lights and kept going. I laughed at the houses who didn’t turn on their porch lights, laughed harder at the ones who did, but didn’t come outside. They say if you’re being raped, yell fire - like you’ll fucking remember that. Literally. When you crash your car into an orchard and are stuck for four hours, yell something. Don’t impatiently break your ankle trying to get out like me.