Page 14 of Trailer Park Billionaire

I reach over to my nightstand and turn on the small lamp. The light stings—first my pinched eyes, then my brain. It takes a moment to adjust. Once I do, I go back to freaking out.

There’s blood everywhere. My formerly white sheets look like they were part of a murder scene. I’m still dressed in thesame clothes I wore yesterday, except now they too look like the murder mystery game wasn’t a game at all.

What the fuck is going on here?

I try to sit up properly and cry out when my hand starts hurting once again. There’s a tiny shard of glass in it.

Motherfucker.

I pull it out and discover even more shards beside me. When I roll out of bed, the pocket of my pants—or rather what’s inside—cuts into my leg. Careful not to hurt myself more, I slide them off and retrieve the pieces of broken glass. It’s not just any glass, it’s a bottle. Or at least, it used to be. One piece reads ‘Absi,’ and suddenly everything rushes back to me. At least everything until that bottle.

My grandpa.

The painting.

The party.

The bottle of absinthe.

The gallery.

That fucking gallery.

The bottle that went through their window.

The bottle thatI threwthrough their window.

Standing in the empty street.

Realizing I had just jeopardized everything I have worked for so hard.

Picking up the evidence that had my fingerprints all over it.

Rushing away.

Fuck.

I squeeze the piece of glass in my hand and throw it against the wall.

I’m not sure what satisfaction in a situation like this is supposed to feel like, but standing there, staring at the shattered gallery window, that had felt a lot more like panic than satisfaction. It definitely didn’t feel like justice.

This isn’t me.

This is not who I am.

Not anymore.

The police didn’t catch me last night, and they’re not here yet. Maybe they don’t know it was me. Maybe there weren’t any cameras. Maybe my bad decisions aren’t catching up to me just yet.

Outside, sirens echo in the distance. I freeze, standing still like a statue—not moving, not breathing, just listening as the noise slowly travels in another direction. They’re not for me. I breathe.

Evidence.

They might not be coming for me yet, but the evidence needs to go. So I wrap my hand in an old T-shirt, strip off all my clothes, and throw them onto the bed. Then I gather every last piece of glass I can find and toss it on there as well. I strip the duvets and pillowcases and add them to the pile.

Repeat offender.

Ashlynn Smoulderpops into my head. She got a year and a half for the first arson she committed. Five for the second. Good cellmate though. Great cook.