​what has become of the dogs

Second Person Perspective. Word Count: 530

The thing about it is that we are sitting in the car and I am driving you to a friend’s house, it’s late at night and you are looking out the window, and the scenery is going by too fast. The thing about it is that there are candy wrappers all over the floor and there’s gum on the seat and this is my car, but I don’t mind, because the thing about it is that I care about you.

The thing about it is that we fight a lot, like siblings do, but I love you anyway and I know you love me back. It’s a hot summer night and I won’t turn on the AC because we need to save money on gas, I mean it this time, really, but I turn on the radio anyway just so that it’s a little more comfortable for both of us.

The thing about it is that you’re starting to get tired, so you say “are we there yet?” even when you know we’re not. Something tightens in my chest and I ignore it in favor of saying “It’s okay. We’ll be there soon. You can go to sleep.” So you go to sleep, and. And

The thing about it is that we are sitting in the car and I am driving you to a friend’s house, it’s late at night and you are looking out the window, and the scenery is going by fast, far too fast when I know what you don’t and I understand how this whole thing works. There are candy wrappers all over the floor and gum on the seat and I know you won’t remember me the next time we do this but I’ll remember you every time and how much I love you.

Can I tell you a secret? We never made it to our friend’s house. You certainly didn’t. There is no end to this story, nothing I can hold onto without my brain skipping like a broken record. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to and I wish I could tell you that.

I have never adhered to anything as closely as I have to loyalty; what is loyalty, if not staying? What is loyalty, if not refusing to leave you behind? What am I, if not a dog who cares for you obsessively through the darkest of days? You will always be here. In some ways, you have never been anywhere else. I can’t fix that. I can’t do this forever. Holding on has done nothing but ruin my hands.

Again, you say, “are we there yet?”

With a lump in my throat, I say, “It’s okay. We’ll be there soon. You can go to sleep.”

Oh, I didn’t mean to do this, I didn’t mean for this to happen the way it did. But out of the hundreds of times I’ve run through these motions, driving through a summer night on a road in the middle of nowhere, this time is on purpose. A decision like the falling blade of a guillotine, the shattering of glass.

This time I jerk the wheel – and this time I mean it.

T