Past midnight and a headache tormented her after all the crying, but Phoebe couldn't just sleep it all away and pretend things were all right.
The road ahead was long and and black, and she watched it roll by from the passenger's seat of their weathered BMW, sniffling in the dark interior besides her silent mother.
The funeral of her past life.
She needed to pee and smoke before her remaining sanity cracked. More than that, she wanted to scream.
But her energy had been drained, along with the willpower and desire to fight and go on living.
They had left home and that was that. It was done. Life was over.
"I need to pee," she finally said, and glanced over to her mother.
"Then I'll stop at the next gas station." If there was a hint of regret in the bitch's tone Phoebe couldn't hear it. It was all about her - her marriage, her divorce, her desire to leave...
All Phoebe could think was how this woman had practically sunk the murder knife into her teenage life - taken away her friends and boyfriend before the last year of high school... She could still see them now, the arms of her friends trembling as they hugged to say goodbye, all teary-eyed; her boyfriend promising to call her as often as possible, to text constantly - to keep their relationship alive.
They hadn't even done anything sexual due to her being underage for the longest time. He was nearly twenty and too weak of heart to dare anything that might count as illegal, and, perfectly, she had just become legal two hours ago - some eight hours after saying goodbye to him.
Just another small cruelty on life's part.
What had she done to deserve this?
This was not the eighteenth birthday she wished for, like not at all. "I'm an adult now," she whispered to herself, and grimaced at the thought.
But all sadness aside, physically she felt much the same as always (shitty, as far as she was concerned), and looked the same too (shitty yet again).
But in reality, she was rather pretty, possessing a distinct charm that came with her youth if not the raw and unkillable beauty owned by some.
She was blond and blue eyed, with full lips that pouted at all times and the softest freckles on her nose and cheekbones. Of course, that hair had been tinkered with to give it a more alternative look, highlighted black, and she wore enough dark mascara around her eyes to be immediately identified as an "emo girl," a description as annoying and ignorant as it was relentless.
Now that makeup had smudged from the crying, drying up as it had run down her face with the tears. Rather than repair the damage, she left it the way it was; not only would it serve as a reminder to her mother, but the effect was pretty cool anyway.
When they pulled over at the gas station - finally! - Phoebe got out of the car without saying a word and slammed the door so hard she almost scared herself. She stopped to hitch up her jeans, the fabric spreading tightly over her bubbly ass, the pantylines clearly visible to any looker. And she hoped there would be one, because little attention went a long way in situations like the present one.
She went into the station as upright as possible, feigning confidence, her boobs jiggling underneath her Spiderman t-shirt.
A few truckers stared as she rushed into the bathroom, and that made her feel a little better - though not much safer.
Some ten minutes later, she emerged feeling slightly calmer and absolutely desperate for a smoke, and found her mother leaning against the bar with her iPad in hand, sipping on a coffee.
Seeing as her mother said nothing and barely acknowledged her presence, she spoke up first: "I need a pack of smokes."
Her mother shrugged. "You can't smoke in a gas station."
"Then I'll walk outside of the radius, God. Just buy them."
"I told you, no. You can smoke when we get there."
"And when the fuck is that going to be?"
The cursing didn't even get her to flinch. "Few hours."
"Great. You're such an awesome mom. Thanks again."
She stormed out of the station and made for the car before her mother could reply - assuming that she was ever going to - tears of frustration once again welling up.
Her hand popped audibly as she yanked the handle of the car door, only to find it locked. "Goddamit!
She would not go back in there to ask for keys. Instead she sat on the cold hood and waited.
A voice out of nowhere said: "Bad night?"
This startled her and she turned to find the speaker.
"Sorry, I didn't want to freak you out or whatever. Just saw you angry a while ago and was wondering if you were alright."
Behind the voice was a black guy, solidly built and middle-aged, wearing a blue blazer, his bald head shining under the bright lights.
"I'm just mad," she found herself saying. "It's my birthday. My eighteenth. And I'm here moving away with my bitch mom, just because my asshole father found some young whore and she was unable to deal with that. So instead I have to suffer and lose everything I spent a life building. Can you imagine? I hope they die."
The stream of words had poured out naturally, without an interfering thought; she just needed to say it all out loud. But to her great relief, the guy only smiled at her. "That's brutal."
She smiled back. He seemed okay. Handsome too. "Do you have a smoke?"
He appraised her momentarily. "Sure. If you don't tell your mom you got it from me."
"I'm an adult."
He laughed. "Guess that's true, huh. Come on," he said, beckoning her to join him, and started walking towards the distant treeline behind the station.
Phoebe frowned. "Why?"
"Well, you don't mean to smoke here in plain sight, do you? Fire hazard and all."
The idea that he might be some crazy psychopath made an appeal before her momentary judgment. A part of her screamed to stay with the car, or better yet, excuse herself and go join her mother back inside. But the other part that she considered rational told her there was nothing to fear, that he seemed decent enough and most people were killed by family, not strangers, and she could handle herself either way. And plus... the pictured image of him grabbing her and taking her away made her tingle with excitement more than anything else.
Phoebe was getting horny.
Why not go? Whatever happened, happened. Not like she had much to lose at this point.
They walked together in silence, and once they were beneath the shadow of the trees, the black guy took out his pack and passed her a smoke. His dark face went ruddy as he lit it up for her, and Phoebe wondered how old he really was. Now that she got a better look, she reckoned he was older than she imagined - maybe forty, maybe even fifty.
"Thanks," she said, smiling again.
They smoked side by side, but she could feel the exciting warmth of his eyes appraising in her in secret, and she hoped he liked what was on sale.
At this point she had decided that she wanted something to do with this man, no matter how small or unremarkable, so long as it took her mind off of things and gave her a modicum of pleasure. If she was going to go through with killing herself when they got to the new place, she wouldn't want to do it as an inexperienced virgin.
And she figured he must have liked her ass at least. The boys at school were always fondling and smacking it when she least expected it, much to the despair and rage of her good-natured boyfriend, who never found the courage to do it at all but only stared, utterly mesmerized when she walked in front of him or bent over to pick up things - which was cute, in its own way.
Phoebe had always told him how much she hated what the others guys did and cursed at those responsible, but the embarrassing truth was she relished every moment; being wanted by them made her feel happy, and their hot hands sent shivers through her young body every time, especially when she knew that the rest of the class stood witness. At times she would just lean over a desk, propped on her elbows while talking to a friend, moving her ass up and wiggling it, feigning absentmindedness, only to turn around and see all the boys, and even a few girls and sometimes a male teacher, staring at her with a burning desire.
