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I smell like smoke. Like a good night. I pull my car in the driveway - careful to park perfectly. No need to raise suspicion. My jerky fingers fumble with my keys and I silently berate myself for causing a ruckus. Finally, success. The red key slips in to the brass lock with a satisfying sound, like hands over bone. The peaks of the red key brushing against the ribs of the lock. My hand work the knob, its cool metal sending a prickle along my palm. I step in. It's cold inside - but not as cold as it was outside. And it's not raining inside. I creep to the kitchen and lay the keys to rest in the green bowl. Quietly. Ever so carefully. Not a noise. I suck in my bottom lip and creep back to the entryway. To the stairs. Approach each step with caution. Dodge a creeky board here. I've memorized them. I knew they'd come in handy one day. Or night. I shuffle past my parents' open bedroom door and find my own room. I open my white door with a practiced touch. The door sticks. The belts hanging from it click noisily against the wood. But not tonight. I've memorized it. I knew it'd come in handy one day. Or night. I slink through the small crack I have allowed myself. Small. Teeny tiny. And that is what I am. Small. Slipping through cracks in wood and fingers and nasty webs. Slipping past everyone. Slipping through everyone. A black bony spider. Creeping. I strip my heavy clothes from my body. Heavy with smoke and alcohol and laughter. They smell like the girl I want to me. I regretfully acknowledge that I will one day have to wash them. And wash away the girl I want to be with them. Sad. My pale skin is free now. I notice my bones. Lovely bones. I looked beautiful. A few spots are sore. They'll bruise. But that's okay. I like bruises. I collapse in to bed. I am happy.