She sits in a garage that isn’t even mine. My former neighbors were kind enough to let me store some things, most of which are replaceable, until I can pick up my moving truck. None of it really matters, save one. Priscilla. MY closest friend, my greatest lover, my worst influence.

    She was born back ‘97 in much the same fashion as her kin. Shoved into the world far too soon so daddy could make more money. The man who took her in first was, by my 45 minute estimation, a good one. He treated her well. Too well. She was dying to break free, to show the world that she isn’t just for show, something shiny to show off to others. No, she deserved better.

    I treated her like shit, pushed her to her limits, often times to a point where she could literally not move on her own power. I kept pushing anyway. apologizing for taking things too far. She forged on ahead, in quiet dignity, myself wrapped in embarrassment, her silence echoing the “fuck you” I know she wanted to say.

    No matter what happened, though, we always made it home together, frequently at the cost of my own sustenance for that day. It was my punishment. A small price to pay knowing she’ll still be there for me in the morning.

    I promise things will change. I promise gifts. I have yet to deliver. She’s damn near torn to shit on the inside, much like myself, yet she keeps going. Sometimes I still need to push her, but, once we’re off again it’s just me and her and our adventures, free to love each other in ways only the two of us will ever know.

    When we’re out there together, I can hear her tell me, “I’m still here. I’ll stay as long as you’ll have me, which I know is forever, because I’m a stubborn bitch and you fuckin love me for it.”

    Yeah, I really fuckin do.