Midnight, February 18th. My room, pitch black, with the A/C humming, the white temperature readout gently lighting a small part of the ceiling. To complement the white noise it generated was an old, small fan on my nightstand, whirring away.

Laying on top of the covers in my pajamas, I tried to think about how to sleep. I tossed and turned, thinking about what had happened earlier that day. I still remembered hearing it so clearly in my head: that one of my best friends had killed himself the night prior.

It was like someone had taken over my brain, clearing the usual thoughts and replacing it with a lifeless emptiness. Even though I had not known until earlier that day, I still felt what most call survivor's guilt.

I sat up in bed, thinking about what to do. Looking down at the floor, I knew what I was to do. And it was going to be a bad idea.

After changing out of my pajamas into some clothes I hardly wore, I gently pressed my bedroom door in with my left hand, sneaking out of my bedroom with the utmost care. I risked being caught by how long I was taking, but I wouldn't be caught by making a sound at least.

The hallway was dark but that didn't stop me from navigating by memory, creeping across the wooden floor in my socks, sliding them softly rather than stepping. The car keys were on the entryway hutch, which I quickly pocketed. My parents trusted me and often left them lying around in the same spot.

The screen and front door were dealt with the same way as my bedroom door, as I continued my sneaking. I slipped out the fence side gate, feeling the car keys in my pocket burning an imaginary hole.

I nearly made my first mistake when I put the key in the ignition after getting in: the sound of the car starting would definitely alert my parents. Thinking quickly, I used the natural incline of our driveway to coast the car backwards out, down the street, using the handbrake to stop.

Reaching for the ignition, I considered what I was about to do: driving alone illegally seemed like something cool; something every American teen would do at some point, but I knew being caught would definitely be a bad thing, especially since I was a diplomat in a foreign country. I wasn't just breaking local law, I was risking my dad's job and our family's approval for living abroad.

The deed was done.

Clunking into drive, I let off the brake; the car beginning to creep forwards. This was it: I was officially driving illegally. The fog began to lift from my mind; the same time I slowly accelerated, driving away. No lights inside were on, so I knew I was in the clear.
The roads were completely empty. In my newfound clarity, I raced myself up the mountain roads, listening to the sound of the engine and feeling the adrenaline thumping in my veins, my heart pounding in my chest.

As I zipped around those corners, cold air rushing in from the open window, feeling the g-forces on my body, I grinned, feeling free as a bird. I had never done anything like this before, but now I knew it was something to remember, even if it was something highly dangerous.

I wound my way into a seemingly abandoned area, with weeds growing up between cracks in the pavement, and faded orange streetlamps glowing dimly. The wild mountain dogs were asleep at the side of the road, waking up briefly only to observe the strange red vehicle roar by, their fur ruffled by the wind it created. They paid it no heed: humans did strange things.

I lost track of time. I went up the mountain roads until I couldn't go up no more; so I went down the other side. The fog had been lifted.

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