S. Hunt wanted no witnesses. As she walks down the street, mind like a milkcrate, with a 40 ounce (that's O. Z.) bottle of malt liquor. Heel toe. Hell no. Mr. Graves used to make them walk lines that way in P.E. class, grade 8, as punishment when she refused to play Smear the Queer. Citing irreconcilable ideological issues. She wasn't going to forced into being some patsy homophobe. Or get knocked in the head one more time with that ball. Mr. Graves, who is probably wearing the exact outfit right now that he wore every day of her middle school life, didn't know what ideological meant. Heel toe. Hell no. Down the fucking block I go. It's been a long time since she's been a school girl. But she knows that Colt 45 will leave her with a better headache whenever she wakes up than some of that other shit. All she can think about when she lets herself into her apartment is just how much she doesn't want to be there. The transitory feel of the muted grey indoor-outdoor wall to wall carpeting makes her skin itch. Like a hug from someone she hates. The shades shut. Television on. The flicker reminds her of fire as she curls under the weight of the blanket her father sent her almost a decade ago. Leans forehead to palm. Cradles the bottle against her side, precious, like a baby. She'll sit up all night watching advertisements for chopping machines or pornography. Yesterday, when she woke up on the floor, she noticed some words scratched into the belly of the table. a beautiful revolution. it said. she doesn't remember if she wrote it.