Once upon a car ride, my father spoke in hushed tones. He spoke to my cousin, and everyone was sleepy. Once upon a car ride, trucks were whizzing by. I had nothing left to say, worry, or cry about.

What was there left to say, really? In the confined quarters of a silver Camry there wasn’t very much. I knew the car, knew its smell, knew the contrast of my dark skin to the pale grey fabric lining the inside. I know the voice of my father, speaking in hushed tones, and the voice of my cousin who could never keep it down.

I knew my feeling, or perhaps I didn’t. I wasn’t sure. I remembered feelings distantly now. I could barely remember what had happened.

To this day, I don’t remember if we stopped at all. To eat, pee, or stretch our legs. I remember the long stretch of 401 and the air the must’ve been cold outside because it made the glass of my window cool. It wasn’t snowy or happy in any way. It was grey and concrete and sleepless. I don’t know if there was music.

I knew (and know), however, what was in the Camry’s trunk. I know still the few things I kept. Some pants, shirts, the shoes on my feet. Nothing else but a few books. I left everything with my friends. Anything they had expressed mild interest in was made to go to them, sent to them as a present for not leaving me forever like everyone else had.

The books I hadn’t taken went to Rebecca. I called her Becca-boo, because one of our dogs had been nicknamed that, and she liked to read. I had a lot of fantasy. She liked fantasy. The books went to her.

The strange eagle statue, a few other artistic things, all went to Amanda Bird. We called her birdie, and she liked all that stuff.

My china dolls, stuffed things, and the swans that tinkled and spun light through mirrors all went to Kate. She saved me.

And I had my shoes and a change of pants. Myself, the car, my father’s hushed voice, my cousins brash one. I had the contrast of my skin to the pale grey of interior. I had the Camry and the 401 and the concrete. I had the air that must be cold because it made my window cold, and I had the window.

I had a feeling that might be a broken heart. I had the feeling of injustice, and of pain and of sorrow. I had a feeling no one understands until they are me and play my part in the several act play that was the month leading up, and the climax of the Fight.

No one knows just what happened besides a very few whom I cried to. I am here now, and they like me, and forgive me for not being what my mother wanted.