by Sarah Bastos
All of the houses look the same with their manicured lawns, picket white fences, and leftover holiday decorations. You don’t remember when the next-door neighbors moved out. Or when the new neighbors began living there. Every Friday night, there’s a party in someone’s basement. No one knows who’s throwing it. You don’t remember how you ended up taking shots of cheap vodka while some shitty pop song from the 2010s played in the background. You drink to forget, but you can’t put a name on what precisely it is you want to forget.
You and your friends go out on a 3 AM car ride to escape the confines of this subdivision. It’s been 20 minutes. You’re back at where you started. Your parents work in the city. You don’t know what their jobs are. You doubt they even know what they do. Everything is supposed to be ok. Whatever that means. No one knows about what goes on at home. You drink to forget.
You hoard pills from your parent’s medicine cabinet to feel. You want to feel something real. There are rumors about what happened to that freshman girl at that party last night. No one has seen her since then. You wonder if she was even real.