I am going way too fast. I know it, but something inside makes me unable to slow down. Blame the alcohol, my insatiable need for speed, or maybe just blame the fact that I am supremely messed up.

A woman in a gold minivan honks and flashes me a livid look in my rear view mirror as I speed by her, undoubtably freaking out her brats in the backseat. I can practically hear her forewarning them already. That girl is going to wind up killing herself! Remember, you should always drive safely and within the speed limit.

Because that's what mothers do. They smear lectures into your pb & j's, they braid admonishments into your hair, and they scold you until you implode. Once you're good and empty, they fill you up with their own unfulfilled dreams and plans. They steer you on the "right" track and then pat themselves on the back for having such perfect children.

I wonder what you'd think of me if you could see me right now, Mommy dearest. I doubt there'd be any back patting whatsoever. If you took even one peek inside my head, you'd have me fitted for a straight jacket. Not that you would even try to see the real me. You like to live in make-believe land where none of your children could possibly have any defects.

Maybe if you're lucky, you won't even have to bother with the nuthouse. Maybe tonight could be my last.

The more I think, the more seductive the idea gets. All it would take was one turn of the steering wheel, my car would crumple like a piece of paper. My windshield would break into a million pieces, scattered all over the pavement. I'd be so twisted up in metal, so weaved into the wreckage, they wouldn't have a clue how to fix me. They wouldn't even know where to start.

I wondered where I would go, after. If there was a hell or anything equivalent, I'd undoubtably end up there. Or maybe I would just stay trapped in my own body, eternally under six feet of dirt. I can't decide which would be worse, but I know they are both more appealing than my alternative.

I notice that I have been speeding up this whole time, steadily increasing until I reach 80 mph. I'm pretty sure that is a lethal speed for a crash. The road is empty now. I spot a nice, hard looking brick wall just off the side of the road. The sun creeps behind a cloud. Everything is falling effortlessly into place. It's time.

As I swiftly approach my demise, I expect to feel something. Nothing comes. I'm not sad, or disappointed, or even scared. Just ready.

My fingers clutch the wheel, my foot slams the accelerator, and before I'm forced to feel anything at all, my vision turns velvety black.