“Stop it! Let me out of here!” I yell, angrily pulling on the door handle of the car repeatedly. There’s no use. Abby, my best friend, locked the door. I violently turn around and thrust my body forward to reach for the door handle behind me.

“Oh God, what are you doing?” Abby raises her voice, frightened. All of the doors are locked. “We need to go.” She says, more calmly this time. She has a worried look as she puts on her seatbelt slowly. Her eyes move from the buckle to the wheel at the same speed. She looks ahead with her hands on the wheel, not moving anymore. She seems to be deep in thought, as if she is about to take on a task she is unprepared for, but something occurs suddenly to her. “Put on your seatbelt,” she looks to me and lifts her chin a little to signal her command.

“No! We’re not going anywhere. I’m not putting on the seatbelt. This won’t be safe and you’ll get us into an accident and I’ll die so I don’t have to go there!” I speak rapidly and shout in her face this time. Abby’s not looking in my direction anymore. She is looking at the gray Honda Civic in front of us. She turns on the engine and pulls away from the curb. Why didn’t she respond? “Stop driving!” I scream as loud as I can. Even my own ears now hurt from my shrill voice. Abby has no reaction.

The silver Toyota Prius goes on the steep entrance ramp onto I-495. Destination signs and route number signs soon flash by because Abby is driving faster and faster now. The cars on the other side of the divided highway appear to zoom by. The trees by the highway become a blur. I look up and see that the sunroof is slightly open, to let the spring air in. I reach for the opening and try to force the rest of the sunroof open, pushing as hard as I can on the glass. “Oh my God! Stop it right now!” Abby tries to pull me down with as much force her right hand allows her while keeping her left hand on the wheel. She alternates between looking at the road and looking in my direction to get me to calm down and sit. Her face conveys her I-don’t-know-what-to-do look. Her eyes start to wander in various directions.

“That’s right. You don’t know what to do about me. Let me out of this car now, and I won’t be your problem anymore.” I was hoping to strike a convincing argument, but I fail. Abby is still driving and pays no attention to what I just said. We are both silent in the car now.

I met Abby in college. We were roommates our freshman year at Boston University. We became friends then and got really close ever since. We graduated college only a year ago. I’m in law school right now, and Abby’s working as a research assistant at an engineering lab nearby. Fifteen minutes pass before Abby turns on the radio. “Please call …”

“You’re wrong about me, and you know that,” I interrupt the commercial. My eyes move from the glove compartment to her. I glare at her. Once again, she doesn’t look at me. So this time, I don’t expect her to respond, and I am surprised when she speaks.

“Am I? What makes you think so? Do you really think what you’ve been doing in this car is normal? What you’ve done the past few months in your apartment?” She turns to me. Her tone is matter-of-fact. It’s as if everything she just said is obvious. I’m wrong, and she’s right, and that’s it. Even though she’s not.

You know what? I feel sorry for Abby. Her life has gone downhill since she broke up with her boyfriend James a few months ago. So Abby’s been lonely and has been spending a lot of time with me. I offered to let her stay at my apartment until she feels better about her breakup with James. But no, my apartment isn’t good enough for her.

My apartment has white walls. I even painted them myself. They used to be … blue? It’s strange to think that I can’t remember what color the walls used to be since I only moved in a few months ago. My favorite color is lime green. So why did I paint my walls white again? I don’t know.

A couple weeks ago, when I came back to my apartment after my classes, I realized that someone had gotten into my apartment and destroyed my beautiful white walls. The word sick was written all over my walls with black paint. The paintbrush and paint bucket were left in my apartment as well. I don’t understand how the person came in. The door wasn’t left open when I walked in, and I remember locking it before I left. I make sure I lock my door before I leave every day. I don’t remember how I felt and what I was thinking afterwards. I just remember that I soon broke down. I called Abby, and she came over right away. When she walked into my apartment, she was confused by what had happened. But she wasn’t surprised. No. She didn’t look surprised. It was as if she had expected something like this to happen, because this kind of stuff happened all the time here or something. “Everything’s going to be O.K.,” She comforted me. Abby took my hand and led me up to my room. She had to force me to get up. I couldn’t move for some reason, like I felt stuck where I was. When we finally got up to my room, she pulled up my loose cargo shorts. I had some cuts on the side of my thigh. “I’m fine,” I reassure her with a smile as she moves her finger down my SpongeBob SquarePants Band-Aids. One, two, three, four. That was how many Band-Aids she counted.

Abby apologizes to me in the car. “I’m so sorry. I should have done this sooner. I should have realized sooner.”

“It’s ok,” I put my hand on her shoulder. “Don’t feel bad about it. You just really loved James, so you refused to admit that he was cheating on you. You just didn’t want to break up with someone you loved. It happens. And don’t worry; you’re not bothering me by wanting to spend a lot of time together. I get it. You get lonely without him.”

“What? What are you talking about? I was talking about you.” Abby takes her eyes off the road and turns towards me. She has that confused look again. It’s the one she gives me when I tell her that she’s not at the right place and right time period, that she comes from somewhere existed a long time ago, that she’s from some time in the past. I don’t tell her this usually though. I don’t want her to feel bad about herself, like she doesn’t belong here, especially because she’s my best friend.

“No. No, you’re not.” I shake my head. I don’t want to argue with Abby. I want to be calm and collected since this car ride hasn’t been going well. Calm and collected. I don’t have any problems. Abby disagrees. She really worries too much about me. Sometimes I feel like she has problems and needs help. I think she has some sort of anxiety. But I know she only acts the way she does because she cares about me, and I appreciate it. So I don’t tell her to go to the psychologist. Abby sometimes tells me that I can be in a much better place, that I will get better. I don’t know what she means by that. Sometimes, I feel like I’m making her anxiety problem worse by not forcing her to go to the psychologist.

Abby pulls up in front of a large beige office building with several glass windows. The tinted windows make up the majority of the building. “We’re getting out now,” She says as she finishes parallel parking. She unlocks the doors, and I immediately get out of the car and run down the street, away from the beige building. The street sign reads Maple Avenue. I don’t know which direction I should be going in. How do I get home? “Malinda! Stop running!” I hear Abby, but I ignore her. I continue running and turn around the corner onto Oak Street. Abby suddenly appears near me. She catches up and stops me. She pulls my arms with all the strength she’s got because I refuse to move to turn around in the direction of the beige building.