Clear, cold water swirled in torrents down my throat. It was my only reminder that not everything was hot and humid. The sweltering, suffocating, summers definitely killed. Today was one of those days where you drown in your sweat, and all you want is a drink and a bath. I hate these days...come to think of it, guess everybody does. Usually, I spent them in a cool, air conditioned room reading a good book, a blanket nearby if it got too cold. Not today. Shading my eyes, I strained to look past the mirage at the end of the street. Nothing but wandering kids. Nothing but crashed cars. Confusion, really. No one expected this to happen. I took another swig of my bottled water, willing panic to wash down my throat with the clear liquid. Staying calm as possible, I continued my walk down the street. I passed lots of them—kids, teens, young adults. No one really above twenty. I watched their faces, some were like me, trying to stay impassive until they straightened out. Others were going ballistic, eyes wide, sweat dripping from their faces. I tried to ignore those ones. At one time, a girl, younger than I, screamed for someone to help her. It was the only thing to hear in the ghost town. I almost gave in, then. But I stayed strong, and continued walking. Where was I going? I didn't know. Didn't think anyone knew where they were going, either. They just had to do something. Out of everything you could do, walking seemed the best. It gave the illusion you were getting away. Getting away from loss—or what might be loss. If my dad was out there, I hoped to find him—later. I couldn't find up and down right now. I was just moving as a blank—a nothing. My memory couldn't process the past few hours that went by. When I woke up, it was in a public bus that crashed in the side of a tall building. All piles of salt in the seats where people would be sitting. The only things that were really able to find their way through my mindset was the heat festering on my back, bruises and aches everywhere on my body. The right side of my face felt numb. When I reached to feel it, my fingers came away bloody. When I passed a few, they asked if I needed help. I told them I was fine, not knowing what I might look like right now. My legs were stiff, and blood didn't seem to be pushing its way through them, making my steps limp.

Sweat trailed down my face and neck, stinging my cuts, and the bloody side of my face started to burn like the depths of hell. Soon, I couldn't stand the scent of overheating flesh filling my nose. I backed out of the sun, underneath the striped awning of a small building named: SUGAR RUSH. I was about to unscrew my water bottle, when I noticed the thin glaze at the bottom. This wouldn't help. I let it drop from my hand onto the ground. A hollow thud sounded, and I turned, letting my hand grasp and pull the intricate handle on the door. Chilling cold air flew at me, and my face suddenly felt raw and colder than the rest of my body. I stepped inside. The place looked like a malt shop from the 50's. A few soda fountain handles poked out from behind a counter lined with chrome-plated swivel stools. On the right side of the room on the checkered floor, booths and tables branched out to the left side. I staggered across the room, spotting piles of salt all around the tables and chairs. I lifted my gaze to the sign ahead of me: RESTROOMS.

Even before I stepped into the family bathroom where I could lock the door behind me, I started to strip off my damp, blood-stained clothes, dropping them to the floor. After I drank my fill of the cold faucet water, I stood in front of the mirror, staring at my hideous reflection. My deathly pale face was hardly seen underneath the large amount of blood caked brown around a two inch cut on my right cheek. Blood from the wound trailed down my neck and got as far down as my midsection. Bruises were riddled all over, but they weren't as bad as my black eye. In fact, nothing hurt worse than it. When I cleaned it, the cut on my face wasn't that deep, and the only pain I registered from it was a dull ache that I knew later on would turn into a serious killer. I pushed my palm multiple times into the almost-empty soap dispenser, and came away with my hand full of orange, frothy soap. I flush it into the running water for a split second and rub down my aching body, cleansing myself of impurities. Rinsing myself off was a really exerting task. I would fill my fists with brown paper towels and run them under warm water and wait until they got sopping wet, then I would rub and squeeze the paper up and down my body, letting the water wash away the blood, sweat and dirt. When I bent down to rinse off my legs I felt the makeshift patch for my cut start to slip off. I fixed it kinda like an eye patch, except on my on my cheek. A folded square of paper towel was tied to my face by braided toilet paper to create a good, flexible rope-thing to go around my head I didn't clean my clothes with the soap because I didn't want to waste it. Instead, I filled the sink with hot water and rubbed the clothes into themselves while they soaked in the water. I changed the water a few times, to make sure they were absolutely clean. There was an AC vent in the restroom, so I covered it up with my wet clothes so they would dry, and so I wouldn't freeze to death. In the corner farthest away from the door, I set up a small three layer bed of paper towels and dozed off quickly, so I wouldn't have time to think or, more importantly, feel.