We were kids, but we were probably too old to be acting this way. It was late, past midnight, and the world was dark and quiet.
We had spent the evening on our friend's battered couch. It was velveteen and patterned in orange and brown flowers. You lost your wallet between the cushions. In the tiny apartment on top of a locked garage, everything was yellow and warm. We swallowed pills until we vomited. We held hands until it didn't even feel like the dead of winter.
On the way home in my clunky silver car, the roads had disappeared. There was nothing. Only great mounds of perfect white snow and obscure, tire smeared pathways between us and home.
Our home was a foldout piece of furniture made out of foam. Orange vinyl curtains that set everything on fire and the silent television tuned to a static channel. Naked and young, a fine mist of invincibility and suicide littered over everything we owned. Our home was pressed between us.
I struggled getting up a hill and you were passing out in the passenger seat. Suddenly, the stars were a blur, the air was blue. I pulled a knit hat down tighter over your head as you leaned against the window, opaque and frosted shut. I loved you and the world was a wasteland. The world was shit and I loved you.
The car was out of my control and the world was sleeping, so quiet and still, the world wasn't real. I put my hands over my mouth and screamed, waking you up, as we crashed into a telephone pole. It didn't matter. We were on the back roads of a sleeping college town on winter break. There were deer prints across front lawns. You wouldn't remember this.
As I was unlocking the door to my apartment, you slipped on the ice and went careening backwards, smacking your head on the pavement. Oh god, the mesh from my little outdoor grill was stuck to your foot. You stepped on it and broke it. Your head was hurting. We made our way, laughing, inside where it was warm. We stripped out of our freezing clothing and went to sleep.
In the morning, you were in a hurry. You had to drive home. It was Sunday. When you sat up, your scalp was sticky and matted with blood. Your hair was stuck to the wall. You took a hot shower and emerged, touching the back of your head gingerly.
You were so dear, like a dream. I spent the next few nights pressing my palm against the smooth white wall where you left a smear of dark red, turning to brown. I didn't wash the blood off for a week.