four trapped souls in the night.
* note: this was a project for my english class, so this was written in one take and is messy af and hasn't been revised since. you've been warned
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Vintage music played on the radio, blending perfectly with the serenity and the oddly comforting coldness of the night. Four teens were aboard the only car in the highway, a small, beat-up, old Jeep, as they took advantage of the vast, empty road and carelessly sped as if their lives depended on it. In their youthful minds, it did.
Behind the wheel sat Ophelia. Sweet, sweet Ophelia, they would all call her. None would've expected that she would be in the position she was in now, caked up with make-up, in a dress she couldn't bother to check if it was Gucci or Louis Vuitton, and driving to nowhere in particular. At that thought, she silently chuckled and shook her head, fingers tapping on the wheel to the beat of the song, and the urge to sing enveloping her, though she kept her mouth shut as to not disrupt the peaceful silence.
She wasn't a rebel. Born and raised to be prim, proper and perfect, that if she hadn't left too early, she would've stood on stage, giving her valedictorian speech and receiving the countless awards she'd earned throughout the years. But she could care less about it. A diploma was just a diploma-a roll of paper with words. Gold medals and ribbons were just that-things that could take her somewhere, but at the same time would only lead her nowhere. The only people who felt appreciation for it were either fake people that smiled when facing her, then threw a knife at her back the moment she turned around, or her parents. Her sweet, sweet, sweet parents, that only cared for their wealth and their image. And if anything went wrong, they would take matters into their own hands and personally "fix" it.
Remembering the bruises on her stomach from their last "fixing", Ophelia herself was enough to prove that statement.
In the passenger's seat was Lana. Her head was stuck out of the window facing the stars with the type of gaze only a naïve little girl would have, or a person too drugged up with whatever illegal substance they'd had their hands on. For her, it was always the latter. Everyone knew of little Lana with the devil-may-care attitude and her reputation of substance abuse. In her new, sparkling black dress, the skirt sprinkled with white powder, she reeked of all things bad and corrupt.
