Deadra Acosta

July 17 20XX

Bronson’s Saturn

SELF-PERFECTION IS SELF-INFLICTED

“Bronson, I lied to you.”

“About what?”

“I fucking put my old man in the ground, in April.” He says nothing. I collect the remnants of my gurgling throat. I fight the sight of his open casket futility behind my eyelids, and try to keep speaking. “My dad is dead. My old-fucking-man is dead, fucking dead.”

“I’m so sorry—”

“Stop.” Useless fucking words, the last thing I want to hear ever. I’m fucking pissed at you now, Bronson. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. “Don’t you fucking say that.” I sniffle.

More silence on his end, how long until I feel sorry? “No, wait… I’m sorry,” there, I said it. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so—

“Can I… what can I do?”

I think. I breathe, “Just keep driving.”

“I’m gonna need to stop for gas eventually,” he says, with tender, but inflexible words.

“Okay.”

More silence is of no note. We descend further into the webs of corn and soy, a frail frequency newly seeping from the stereo all over the floors and grates. They play nothing but Hispanic music, now grated by this shitty stereo. He doesn’t say anything for a long time.

Out of the black, “My brother died last month,” he says. Then he says nothing. And I say nothing. So he says, “We were never very close, but it’s hit my family pretty hard. My dad stays out late on the weekends. He comes back smelling like shit… and I can hear them fight in the other room. It’s like, you know, every problem they had in that relationship, has just fuckin’ finally fallen apart.”