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I look out the passenger-side window of the car to see a Nissan sail past in the right-hand lane, taking with it one more piece of the life I once knew.

Whoosh--there goes happiness.  Right behind it, in a yellow SUV, personal safety sails on by.  Casting my eye further out, I see every tree along the edge of the highway clutching something else in its barren, wintry arms. My music career. My friends. My home. Passion. Love.

A week ago I was sitting at my piano, my body swaying in time to Rachmaninoff while a beautiful man nibbled my ear. Today I am tied to the seat in this car, trapped, afraid and overwhelmingly sad.  Two hours or so earlier I had attempted to open the door and jump onto the snowy shoulder of a local road, and this tethering was my reward. I don’t want to keep looking outside,  but I dare not look to the driver’s side of the car, either.  Instead, I focus on my feet, my hands in my lap, the scattered drops of Tristan Hendry’s blood dotting the right leg of my jeans.

How did I get here?

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