It's 3 a.m. and I haven't stopped moving since eleven. My legs just keep going, I'm still not sure where. We have been walking for hours and I just know that I am not there yet. The street is the old kind of cobblestone that I didn't even think still existed. It reminded me of the way the road to a blacksmith's house might look. I could feel the weight of the fog on my skin, pooling into little drops that left a trail of water. I guess I could use this luminescent path as a way to Hansel and Gretel my way back home because let's face it I have no idea where the hell I am.

I keep going. Suddenly my sneakers are making a squeaking sound and it takes me a second to realize that the path is no longer cobblestone. It is marble, like the floor in a great palace. There are the columns of the great hall to my right and the servant comes in through that door that looks remarkably like a laundermat. The ceiling has been painted by the most talented artist in the world, constellations that seem to move independently of the rest of my universe.

Maybe this has something to do with the fourteenth shot of vodka. Maybe I shouldn't be walking around a city I don't know late at night, alone. I mean, these things are completely obvious but I choose to ignore reality, as per usual.

What's so good about reality anyway? People always say that I need to, "Get back to the real world", but what good will that do? The real world is full of drunks, liars, killers, and worst of all, love. It is full of people that love and animals that love more and it has the best way of feeding you the right love at the wrong time.

I rip open the top of the flask my dad got me for my sixteenth birthday. That was approximately ten hours ago. Well, he gave me the flask about ten hours ago, at five o'clock yesterday, so technically it's not my birthday anymore. Approximately three hours after, he drove off, zig zagging down the street faster than I had ever seen him go. Then, exactly six hours after he gave me the most inappropriate gift in the universe, he drove into a park bench. Which would have been fine except the sixteen year olds hooking up on that bench ended up on the hood of his car.

And now he is staring at the wall of a cell, rubbing the softball size bruise on his head and the gash on his chin is bleeding still. He thinks he knew the face of the boy but how can he be sure? And now the police are walking up the steps of these teenagers homes, and their parents have no idea that she is in the hospital and he is no longer breathing.

Approximately four hours ago my father killed my best friend and above my head the constellations move independently from my universe. I know they are not in the world I know, because my heavens are crashing and there are no stars to make constellations with.

It is three in the morning and he was my best friend. It is three in the morning and I am in a strange place, vodka on my breath, and I do not think I will ever get where I am going.