The next day came, and we got on the road again. But something about Apollo didn't seem right. He kept looking behind him. It was unusual, and he hardly talked, like a dumbbell clung to his mind—dragging him down, making it impossible to resume normal function. 

        I took the first exit, seeing as there was only so much we could do in a single day. Besides, I had to gather supplies. There's also the trademark blue sign for Walmart sprouting high in the sky. They always had decent deals on bargain brands, and my mom taught me to be a deal-seeking girl.

        Not to mention, my feet were cramped.

        My car makes a turn, chugs forward, and slides into an empty parking spot. I turn the key, listening to the engine die down. I groan, grabbing my purse. "You want to tell me something?" I muse, smiling doubtfully. "You've been introverted all afternoon."

        Apollo unbuckles the seat belt, carefully easing it over his thick curls. "I don't understand why you killed him; you never answered me." 

        "I'm not obliged to." My hand hovers over the bag of McDonald's, "why are you so damn curious?" My eyebrows furrow as I lose myself in thought. "This isn't like you."

        "I'm not forcing you to confess anything," his voice grows rough like I'm testing his patience. "And who wouldn't be interested when a young, usually shy girl purposely does something on a scale like this!"

        "You're such a child; don't go seeking answers that'll hurt you," my resolve is waning, depleting like my energy reserves. But I press on, push through the thicket. "I'm tired of this." 

        Apollo shakes his head, "I know you're confused, and conflict sits unresolved inside you." 

        I sigh, flubbing my lips. Every action is to soothe the anger and anguish. To stop me from trying to hurt Apollo. "I am not!" I yell, my eyes prancing out the window, searching for anyone wandering where they shouldn't be. And no one oversees the pity party ensuing in my banged-up car. "Why are you acting funny?!" 

        "I'm concerned. Is that wrong?" Apollo says in a bossy, you-have-always-been-immature way. He leans over the threshold, fingers intermingling with mine—parasite and human, human and parasite, monster and monster. "Violet." 

        "No." I snarl, uncomfortable. I draw back, "I shouldn't have involved you." 

        "I wanted this," he places his hand over mine, "I'm your parasite; this is how these things work." 

        "Don't act so desperate," I smack him gingerly, "You don't belong to anyone, neither do I." I squint at him, eyesight dissolving, making him seem more rigorous—unexplainable. However, somewhere deep inside me lived a veil of dishonesty, a layer of toxicity. It wanted to surface, poke its head above the water. And it did, if only for a second. "I'll explain tonight when we're safe and far from the police." 

        He nods, stretching. "Fine by me." Apollo swings the door open and steps on the blacktop. "C'mon." He gestures, walking to my side. 

        "Do you have to ask?" I retort, joining him in the humid summer heat. It's all going according to plan. 

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        "Why are they here?!" I snap, grabbing Apollo's ear, "How did they track me?" My forehead's sweaty, my back hurts, and I'm dreadfully biting on my fingernail. "The cops are here!"

        The 'here' I'm referring to is our second-night hotel in the middle of the interstate. In some bizarre turn of events, there are flashing lights outside the main window, periodically blinking red and blue. 

        "Why would I know?" Apollo says matter of factly, "I'm in the same boat as you!" 

        No, he isn't. He's not hunted by the feds or facing murder charges. He isn't hiding for his life, camping in the pool, acting like she's having fun, playing with her parasitic boyfriend, but in reality—in the cold, brooding reality—she's patiently staking out her captors, trying her best to avoid a swift and embarrassing arrest. To have her mug shots all over the state. The thought of having my picture framed on news outlets and police departments and plastered all over the infectious disease we call the internet is maddening. 

        "Luckily, we're not the only people swimming," I gurgle, inhaling a mouthful of chlorine water. I spit it out, hopeful none of the younger kids saw my disgusting act. "Hot tub, now." 

        Apollo gets off the stairs, "it all hurts." He murmurs, soldering to me. "I'm in pain; can we go take a nap?" His face wrinkles miserably, and I feel bad for him, albeit only minuscule.

        The boiling water makes the drums banging on my chest race unyieldingly, "Not yet, just wait until the coast is clear." Fortunately, tomorrow morning, I have an appointment to dye my hair blonde—which will make me blend in better. Allowing me to waltz by the law enforcement, possibly wave, as I strut out of the hotel, hips swaying, gyrating, and shaking my body in plausible ways to appease the male appetite. Then, I'll go outside and soak in the tanning humidity. 

        "My eyes are shriveling." He pesters, waterworks pouring from his angry red eyelids. "Violet, please."

        I smile hedonistically, tugging on the bikini straps—my most patriotic purchase from Walmart. "I'm not risking it. You can go if you need to." 

        As I close my mouth, a group of teenagers come frolicking in, talking like they don't even see us. Or, like they see us and don't care that we're here, minding our business like a couple of champs. I dip my mouth into the water, blowing bubbles while eavesdropping on their chaotic conversation. 

        "Have you seen the news?" The girl rocking a one-piece and blue hair states. 

        "Who hasn't?" A girl to her right says, with red wavy locks and green eyes. 

        "For real," the only boy chips in, with a flabby midsection and a stringy beard that makes me think of pubic hair. "They say she killed her boyfriend, like, how insane is that?" His face lights up, "that's frickin disgusting."

        The first girl turns sideways, swirling her finger like a drink. "Seriously," she hoots radically, and I didn't know voices could derail off the spectrum. "She's a demon." 

        "I wish they got a better description than 'orange hair.'" Miss Ginger proclaims, clutching at her right arm in dismay. "Like, is she short or tall, slim or chubby? Give us details!"

        From underneath the water, I pinch Apollo's thigh harder and harder each time they speak. He's squirming, but he hasn't growled or exploded in vain. That's a good thing, as the last thing I need is for these random people to think I'm an abusive girl.

        Then, they all turn in tantum, eyeballs scouting me out, like I'm an alien entity. The second girl points sheepishly at me like I'm the culmination of all their aimless banter. She flaps it in the air, violently exhaling. 

        "Are you the Boyfriend Killer?" She shrieks, jumping up and down on the ledge. "You have orange hair!" Her eyebrows raise in a hideous reaction like she's obsessed with me, even though she hasn't put two and two together. She's a bit slow, not in appearances, but in the intellect department.

        Who, in their right mind, would ever admit to doing evil? "No." I calmly breathe, my heart violently pounding. But that doesn't seem to be enough to reassure them. So, I cheekily add, "She's a real badass." 

        "Holy crap, yes, but also scary." The first retorts, again voice catapulting off into squeaky octaves. "I would be scared if I knew she was in my midst." 

        Apollo smiles down at me with a sober haughtiness. As if he's laughing and saying, "She is amongst us."

        "Same here," I say with the texture of a rock. I rise to Apollo's level, cupping his ear and whispering, "Let's leave."

        He pats my back, "About time." 

        "I know," I hastily say, moving my body away from the enticing hot tub and toward the towel rack. "But things changed." 

        Jogging to keep pace with me, Apollo looks on in disbelief. "You're a celebrity." He grabs the towel below mine, "not in a good way."

        I wipe my neck, "duh, you thought I'd take that as a compliment?" 

        "Maybe." He tries to give me a soft embrace, but I wiggle out of reach. He slumps, tilting his head disapprovingly. "To the room?" 

        If we go up now, we'd be risking an early grave. I opt to go somewhere else entirely. Thankfully, highways have bustling little towns and hotels at most exits. It was simply a matter of finding one that was enough out of the way of news. In this day and age of social media and the infamous TikTok, that's a feat nearly impossible. 

        "Can't, we'll be suspicious." I intelligently say, inching to the door, feet soaking in shallow liquids. I wrap the towel around my torso, tucking it in the bottom of my top. It's not the warmest, but warmth isn't a priority on my mind.

        The police having a heated conversation with the charming woman behind the counter is.

        Apollo shivers as we transfer to the red carpet lining the floor. "Where to, then?" he questions, lingering to my side—like a disastrous partner, a shallow, feeble-minded enchantress.  

        I cross into the crosshairs of the male officer, blocking my ears from picking up on any of their chatter. It would be disheartening at worst and a death sentence at best. A picture of a cell and wearing an orange jumpsuit, "Dunno," I muster the strength to climb the flight of stairs to the second floor, loving on the swirls carved into the railing. It smells like cleaning detergent, and I take a while to savor it—to tickle the easygoing nature of my emotions.

        One, two, three, and then I'm done being a lackadaisical observer. Once that's finished, with genuine adoration, I set my sights on easing the tension. 

        "You okay?" Apollo asks, strikingly similar to Zander, and I wonder if they're related, maybe distant cousins?

        I shimmy over to the second-floor railing, looking over the edge at the black cap of the police officer. The exaggerated movements, hand motions, and those big, big circles he makes, it's alluring. If I had been weak, I'd lean further over the railing, with both arms woven into the iron and tip. I'd fall onto the ground, splat against the carpet, and die. 

        At least it would refute any leads on me. 

        "Yes, Mr. Apollo," I say, squishing my face, "Are you okay?" I double back, asking him the same thing. Even if it stalls his response for a moment, that's fine. 

        "You think you're smart," he insensitively says, joining my sad session on the rail. "I am okay," he steps on my foot, and a rising annoyance boils within. "What do you plan on doing?" 

        I stick out my back leg, posing like a prized piglet. "Again, dunno." I pivot and spin, facing away from Apollo, with my hair dangling over the ledge as if to tease those below. Like I'm taunting them, like I'm taunting the police officer, like I'm under your ass, come and get me!

        "But," I start, motionlessly playing with the damp towel, anything but my bikini. "I guess it's time to vanish, you know?" I cautiously lower my voice, "Be my boyfriend." 

        He swallows, "Excuse me?" 

        "Be. My. Boyfriend." I reiterate, nodding to the flurry of officers climbing the stairs. "Right now." 

        Apollo stammers, moving back, not forward like I envisioned. "No thanks." 

        "Dammit, this is my one request." 

        "No can do buckaroo."

        "This is no time for teasing." I buckle, gravitating to the open space between us, clinging to that last flicker of hope that I can escape the tyrannical rulers after my head. "Screw it," I don't wait around for his consent, and I know he could easily rat me out for it, call attention to me, wag a finger over me, and gesture to my hair, but I don't have a choice. My first instinct is to grip his flesh, his stomach. But I misfire. I'm too wet to have any hold, and instead, I grab his pants. 

        In which, it wasn't his shorts, but tucked behind. 

        The officer's voices grow louder, "I'm so sorry," I stutter, half moan, half pleasant surprise, and smack myself for sounding so into it. "I slipped."

        Apollo lifts my hand, laughing perplexingly, "Stop." And for the first time in forever, I feel like he's no longer playing along with me. It's as if I've gone and overshot, overstayed my welcome. 

        "I said I'm sorry," I counter, almost throwing myself into the pile of distended sounds coming directly behind me. "Act like you didn't enjoy it." The reason why I'm bringing this up is 1) to stop any attention about my murder and 2) to seduce him into settling down. 

        "I'm not acting," his grasp on my bare hand tightens, twisting as he does so. "Don't touch me like that." 

        My brows furrow, "you're a dude. Dudes love to be touched." I guess I was generalizing to an extent, but my take stood. 

        "I'm a parasite, and I don't—" We're interrupted by one of the officers, who taps my shoulder. 

        I grit my teeth, snuggling with the towel clutching my cold body. The only thing to do now is listen, listen until it's my turn to speak—and then lie because lying is how I live. 

        Glaring, the female scans me from top to bottom, and I scream internally she's intimidating. Her hands land squarely on her hips, and she flares them obscenely, then leans back on her left foot, beginning. 

        "Good evening, sorry to disturb you both," they pause briefly, "we have word that a fugitive of the law is staying here, and she matches your description. Mind if I ask you a few questions?" 

        Ah, right, stay calm. I can't let my heaving chest or splintering headache disorient my responses. I'm innocent. That's what I'm going to have to believe and repeat endlessly. 

        "Yes, ma'am," I say, following her away from Apollo. 

        She takes me to the opposite hall, a solid 30 feet from Apollo and any help I'd ever receive from him. I just need to breathe normally, maybe bite a finger or grab my arm in girlish behavior. 

        Lady Officer stares at the ceiling in deep thought about how to begin. She fidgets with the holster on her belt, then cracks her knuckles. 

        "So," she stops, grumbling something and resuming in the same breath. "Is your name Violet Gwendolyn?"

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        It was him all along. Apollo, the one I thought was an important asset, an ally, betrayed me. They were on to me. The police had followed me all day and caught up to me at sunset. But Apollo wasn't with me anymore—I left him at the hotel, the same one where the Lady Officer questioned me for an hour. 

        She saw through my terrible defenses, and so did Apollo. He wanted to reign me in, make my day miserable, and stop my life on the run. 

        I put my hands in the air: perhaps the last time I'll do it as a free woman. Nothing hurts more than to be betrayed than being ratted out to the cops like this, but I couldn't go back in time and remove him from the equation. 

        Life feels less like life and more like a grubby simulation when things backfire, where life blows them into indistinguishable burning pieces.  

        "Keep your hands where we can see them!" A voice shouts from the protection of a car and the exhausting range of a megaphone. 

        Never, not once, have I had intentions of removing these blood-stained hands from above my head. I'll bid goodbye to normalcy, Zander, and fun nights with Noah. I'm taken aback by how vile I was to those who cared for me. Aside from Apollo, they all treated me like a person. There was Minerva, the pinwheel, the trustee, the saint, the symbol of humble beauty and discreet, sometimes blatant femininity. Next came Noah, my obnoxious, always loveable brother with a knack for older women; Azure, a friend who gave me more humanity than I'll ever know what to do with and the harrowing reminder that I'm not an outsider. Then—even if sometimes they drive me up a wall—I'd be foolish to forget my parents. They raised me, molded me with their respectable hands, saw me make mistakes, and aided in correcting them. 

        "Slowly come forward!" The same voice, the same shade of authority as before. 

        I do as told, the soft clipping of shoes on gravel bringing me closer to the end. Why'd it have to end this way? On a stupid bridge in Missouri, of all places—right where my luck ran out, where my gas exhausted its tedious supply. 

        Tonight, the sunset looks deflatingly beautiful. It's like a wife during the honeymoon phase of marriage, thinking to yourself that she's too gorgeous for anyone. 

        I'm crying again, the first since reawakening, the first since the Tether, since breaking down in that bathroom. It's ironic how patronizing and flat-out sick you get when you realize the evil you've become woven with. 

        "You're going too slow!" The megaphone screeches, and I wince as my ears take a thrashing. 

        Of course, I am. I hate this—I hate myself for doing this. I miss Zander, I miss Noah, Minerva, and Azure. Hell, I miss Apollo. He did what any sensible human would, all without being even the slightest bit human. All while under the impression that he wanted to help, not destroy, our flawed friendship. Now I'm realizing my error, my mistake, the pride I wasn't willing to cast off. 

        Too bad I don't get the option of pressing restart. 

        "Pick up the pace, Gwendolyn!" 

        His words alone are infuriating to listen to. Hearing your name over a loudspeaker is terrifying. 

        But I deter from the chosen path. I can't go to prison; I'm too young, creative, and brilliant. So, as someone rushes after me, I hoist myself onto the bridge guard rail. My brain doesn't stop my legs from pumping and tossing me into the air, where I soar before diving into the river. 

        As I soar, spinning over and over, with the water coming closer and closer, I apologize to Zander. "I'm sorry!" I say into the wind, hoping it finds him in heaven. "I did something horrible, unforgivable!" The waves near me, "I hope I can apologize in person someday..." 

        That fabulous day, I pray, draws upon me, clutches me, and embraces me. But I know there's no heaven for sinners like me. 

        My mind fogs, blanks, and exits without any strength. 

        I splash into the icy cold water, sinking, sinking, sinking beneath the tumultuous waves crashing like tumbleweeds. 

        Things may not have gone as I hoped, but they worked out nicely. 

        A bright light gently nudges my eyes, making me believe it's almost my time. The water has completely engulfed me, and there's no chance I'll ever see the surface again. But that's fine. I don't care about that anymore—I don't even care about my life anymore. 

        I want to atone! To find the many people I've wronged, to find Zander and the twins in the afterlife, and to apologize. To kiss their foreheads, hug them tenderly, and weep on their shoulders. It's not fair how I treated them or anyone. 

        In all my years, I've been someone who takes and takes and takes. Though I hardly seek that anymore, I want the people to find peace. They deserve that much. More than that, however, I deserve closure. 

        And, maybe if I'm lucky when I open my eyes after death guides me away, I'll find myself in heaven with Zander by my side. That would be a dream come true.

        As humans, we all participate—some do it with scowls, others unknowingly—in a highly contagious system. Life, some would say, purgatory, others declare. While I partook in the scrutiny, in the tedious grunt work, I figured it out; I figured out how to escape. 

        I did this by slowly stripping back the layers of insanity, steadily, with a clear purpose. I grew insane over month