I lose myself in the flashback and almost crash into a guardrail. A quick jerk of the steering wheel and I'm back on track. Mentally and physically. You'd think after all this time, I would have forgotten all the stuff that got me where I'm at. But if I forget then I can't grow, so maybe that's why the sirens still ring in my ears. The blood long washed away still feels warm on my face. The road starts to fade away again as I start to get my Marty McFly on. Thankfully me jerking the wheel to avoid becoming road kill woke up my daughter.

"DADDY TURN THE WHEEL!!!!"

Kiara's shrill voice snapped me out of it. Another sharp jerk of the wheel keeps us alive. Kiara looks at me with a "what the hell was that" glare. Without even looking at her I pull over onto the shoulder of the road. Her look nearly burns a hole in my face.

"Daddy, you've been acting funny since we left Ms. Mable's house. I didn't want to ask you anything since I know you don't like to to talk about her, but is everything ok?"

Perceptive little person isn't she? I blame the water in California.

"Nah Stinka. I've just been stressed out about this drive. I forgot how long it was."

As I finish that last sentence, I take off my seat belt, open the car door and get some fresh air. Hopefully this will really clear the cobwebs in my head. I guess seeing Charlene messed me up more than usual. Most times after I'd pick up Kiara from her place I'd be so tired that I wouldn't have time to think. Despite what my daughter may have thought I really was away on business. The love for art was blooming again and I was in the middle of it. Some say painting died a long time ago. I just say people forgot how to perform CPR. Back in the day the streets were flooded with artists. Not people who just throw paint onto some white posterboard. I'm talking cats who made the Mona Lisa look like a stick figure. But, just like me, one bad painting turned everyone off to the idea of cubism, realism and the subtle genius of Norman Rockwell. My masterpiece of failure was killing Charlene's brother. My head was somewhat clear now despite the melancholy events that lingered in my subconscious. I got back in the car and looked at my still slightly frightened daughter.

"I'm sorry Stinka. This ride is really getting to me. What do you think about us finding somewhere to just rest for a little bit?"

"But Daddy won't we miss the grand opening of the sea lion exhibit? You know how much I love them. They're the ones we always talked about going to see."

She looked up at me with those dark brown eyes. And I swear they had a hint of tear in them.

"Looks like we're gonna press on huh? Cause I doubt you'll forgive me if you miss them."

"Probably not Daddy. Who knows, you could be the reason I'll need rehab when I'm 22."

She looked at me and flashed a toothy grin. Note to self, cancel all the smart channels. I'll be damned if my kid keeps outwitting me. I rolled my eyes and started up my '08 Mustang. Kiara kept smiling as she buckled her seat belt.

"Now remember Daddy, keep your hands at 10 and 2 and make sure you pay attention. We can't afford an accident. I'm precious cargo."

Not only is she smart but she's funny. What kind of monster have I created? I pulled back onto the highway and continued our trip. An hour later Kiara was back asleep and I was back to my flashback. It wasn't voluntary. But seeing the sister of the guy you murdered who also happens to be the mother of your child will miss anyone up. Seeing Terry's mugshot on TV did more than make me sick. It forced me into making a deal with the Devil. Charlene came to my room to check on me. Despite our spats we did love each other. Or at least we tolerated each other enough to have sex. Besides after 14 days of solitude, I welcomed any human contact. She walked in and immediately the funk of vomit and BO smacked her in the face.

"I thoughy homeless people smelled bad, but this place smells like you hung up shit-scented air fresheners. Light a match nigga, damn! And why do you smell like Fritos and sour cream? You been fucking with those white bitches at UCLA? I swear to GOD Donovan, if you gave me or our baby something..."

She continued to go off as she found somewhere to sit down. Good to see that impending motherhood had mellowed her out. I was too dehydrated to argue. Instead I made my way back to my bed. I pulled out a notebook from inside one of my pillowcases. While I was trying to wrap my head around everything I had done, I wrote everything down. Every. Fucking. Thing. From the slashing of Terry's throat to my suicide attempt. Luckily I'd run out of painkillers 2 days ago. Once I fished out the confession/suicide note I gave it to her.

"What the fuck is this your homework? Ain't you the one on scholarship?"

"Shut up and read. I'm going to to get some water and take a shower. I just hope you're here when I get back," I weakly said.

And for once, Charlene listened to me. Maybe it was because she felt the serious tone I was using deep in her spine. Or it could have been the vomit breath I had acquired after two weeks of dry heaves. Either way she kept quiet and read. I grabbed a towel, some shower shoes, a rag, some soap and made my way to the showers. The warm water and Irish Spring helped wash away the dried blood and scabs. But the solitude of the shower forced me to think about the past. Nothing like being alone with your conscience and GOD to make you think. I dried myself off and made my way back to my room. When I got there I noticed the door was slightly cracked. I opened it all the way and saw Charlene pointing a gun at me. My note was in her other hand. Before I had a chance to say anything, I heard a noise. Then everything went black. And for the first time in about two weeks, I felt at peace.