Disclaimer : This is my second fic-in-progress. Actually third, but second for this site. I really just started writing this, so it probably sucks. You won't really see much plot development, just the incessant mental ramblings of a road trip prisoner. Oh yea. I don't own anything Roswell. If I did, it wouldn't have been cancelled. For those of you still in denial of its cancellation, . . I still don't own anything Roswell. On with the fanfic. Warning - - Remarkably AU.

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Smoking In the Dark. Chapter One.

Have you ever thought about how difficult it would be to have oval tires..?

Think about it. You would always have to be on the exact same spot on the tires, or else it would look like you had some seriously fucked up hydraulics. At least you would have two sides to choose from.

Turns would be a bitch. So would the highway. A school zone would probably be your best bet, and even that would suck.

The most nauseating ride of your life would be spent on oval tires.

Yes. I know. It's random and completely improbable. But this is the sort of thing you think about on day three when you're locked in a moving vehicle with your parents.

"Look out your window. Look at the beauty of nature. "

My mom watches way too much National Geographic.

But I look out the window anyway. Remember the insanity that comes with day three.

I'm looking out the window, and I see brown. Brown deserts that you hope you'll never have to see again. Like a place you pass by on vacation, and try not to think about once you've past it. Deserts that look like they're dying, because they're tired of being so ugly and brown.

My teeth are starting to get tired from all of this biting.

Bite, bite bite.

My fingernails are about to scream.

I'm bored, so I'm chewing on my fingernails. So sue me. I have a bad habit.

Like smoking.

Smoking can be a dirty habit.

But when you do it at night, it can be a different kind of dirty. Sort of.. glamorous-sickening.

At night, you just want to smoke forever to see the bright color at the end of your cigarette. You want to ash for eternity so it will show itself again. You forget about your lifetime consequences and the black tar filling your lungs. You forget about emphysema and lung diseases and your teeth turning yellow and speaking out of a metal box.

Smoking in the daytime is purely selfish habit. It's a shameless addiction that has nothing to do with beauty. It's all about the nicotine staining your fingers and sounding like a robot in 10 years.

Because in the day time, you can't see the pretty, pretty embers. You don't have that bright cherry to make you forget about smelling like an ash tray. The glowing orange that seems so tempting just to touch. Just once. Like the spinning wheel on Sleeping Beauty.

Would you call me El Diablo incarnate if I told you that I loved Maleficent..?

I thought so.

I'll redeem myself.

I just like her sceptre.

"Touch the spindle... touch it, I say. "

Anyway. So you reach over to touch that pretty ember. Because it doesn't look like it will burn the shit out of your hand.

But it only takes once before you lose your fingerprint.

It's like one second you're 40 years from lung cancer. And the next hello deformed finger.

You smoke in the dark, and you go from zero to unidentifiable in 3.2 seconds; even though you can't even see your feet below you for the darkness.

I sort of think about high school like that. One second you can be president of the science club, all on your way to being valedictorian, go on to have a happy dysfunctional life with your Sears catalog family and 2.5 kids, white picket fence, and a middle management job that you work your ass off just to keep intact, because they're threatening you all the damn time to " put the newer people in your place. " The kind of miserable-normal it takes years to create.

And they'll kick you out... just like that.

High school is sort of like smoking at night. Because things catch your eye, but sometimes you can't even see what's going on around you the rest of the way.

You can get caught up in one thing you want to have [ or touch, to satisify your burning curiosity about the cigarette analogy. ] and forget about the bigger picture. Sort of like your finger.

And so you do it. You touch the ember. You ruin your 4.0 GPA you've been working on since you were in grammar school. You forget about all of the projects you have to do and the studying it takes to make an A on the mid-term. You tell the teacher who swore to write you a recommendation for college to go fuck themself. You stop caring about social politics and what people think. And they kick you out.

Just like that.

So this is me.

Not smoking, but sitting in the back seat of a mini-van. A navy blue Plymouth Voyager with camel colored interior.

I'm sitting here, sandwiched between a big blue-top cooler and some pillows, suitcases, lamps, blankets, food. A brown paper bag that's full of fruit and random non-perishable items. Brands I've never even heard of, are taking up residence beside me.

I mean we never even had this stuff back home. Why would you take all kinds of things you never bought before, with you on your quest for a new home somewhere in the southwest. Why stock up at Costco for things you've never even seen before.

The windows are up, and I'm not smoking. But I can see the reflection of my dark brown eyes in the window beside me. And the tip of my nose. But that's just because of the dark patch in a blanket that's wrapped around one of the lamps.

This is me, and my family. Moving. Because I got kicked out.

Just like that.

Somewhere, there's a guy named Larry and his family who want out of this God forsaken town that we're moving to.

They own a restaurant and have two kids, and live above the alien-themed cafe they own in this God forsaken town that they want out of so badly.

I can see them breaking down the doors and screaming at the top of their lungs, because they want out of this hell-hole. This purgatory that I haven't even seen. This... somwehere.

I bet they're moving to some big city. They're going to New York CIty because they've become money hungry and want to make more money with a cafe that people will actually eat at.

Maybe they're moving to Seattle.

And just at that same time, here come the Parkers and their problem child daughter. Who " used to be such a good girl. "

Well I'll tell you one thing.

It sure does take a hell of a long time to get from Seattle to somewhere.

"Honey, will you hand me a plum, " my dad asks sort of rhetorically.

... The plums are in the cooler. Which is blocked by a couple of lamps on top of the cooler, and wrapped in a few rarely used blankets, for cushioning... in case the car takes a wrong turn somewhere and we fall off a cliff.

In the event that we're rolling down a steep embankment, my mom wants to make sure that the lamps won't break, as our lives flash before our eyes.

Forget about everyone's dismembered bodies laying to the side of the Plymouth Voyager, mom. For the love of God - - Save the lamps.

My family is weird like this. Like moving to Seattle for a year of high school, instead of just putting me in one of the other 10 high schools availible there. It's not like I've been blacklisted by the entire school district.

Or who knows. Maybe I have been.

They tend to smoke in the dark a lot. Miss the bigger picture.

Do I really have to explain that analogy to you again..?

Maybe it wasn't such a good analogy. But can you blame me..? We're driving from Seattle, Washington to some shit town in New Mexico, wrapped around some stupid alien conspiracy. Some po-dunk town with 25 men named " Bubba ", ranging from 3 to 67 years old. A place with one grocery store and half of the population lives in the cemetery.

We're moving to the middle of nowhere.

Because I got kicked out of George Washington Carver High School in Seattle, Washington.

I can sense your disdain.

I don't know if my parents think they're punishing me, or not.

If I were my parents, I sure as hell wouldn't move with me out here. I'd stay the hell in Washington.

See you later, kid.

Too bad you turned out like this.

I'll send you a Christmas card.

Yea - - I'd high-tail it outta there. Maybe even just send my kid on a plane. The shaky kind that are really small and meant for probably only about four people. Maybe they'd get scared and straighten out.

But not my parents. Their punishment to me, is inflicted on them as well. I don't know if it has something to do with blaming themselves for being bad parents. You know. " Where did we go wrong?! " That sort of thing.

"They're inaccessable. "

"What are..? "

.....

"Plums, dad. The plums. "

I can't get to them because all of our earthly posessions are in the way. Like those lamps that are going to survive. No matter what.

Maybe he'll settle for a bag of something else. I pull out the first small bag I see. Gummy bears. Some generic brand with a bear on the front that looks like a colored marshmallow man.

It says " Made with real fruit. "

Real fruit my ass.

I plaster on some sort of smile, but it probably just looks as fake as it feels.

I say, " Do you want some of these instead..? They're made with real fruit. "

I know. Such a hypocrite.

Relax. It's only gummy bears.

I wave the little plastic bag in front of the rearview mirror, so he can take a dad glance at them, and decide. His eyebrows are sort of twisting into a look.

One of those dad looks.

The kind that say " Well I don't like it, but if you can't do any better.. "

You're a real Mother Theresa, dad.

Just don't look at the mutant gummy bear mascot on the front of the package.

Here comes the grunt of regret that I can't access the glory of a highly-coveted plum for those holy lamps.

Sorry dad. It's Captain Gummy or those sick off-brand Apple chips that mom bought from the health market like.. before I was born.

They're made with " real fruit " too.

Thin slices of apple that have been... left out for a couple of weeks and shriveled up a little, then they like fry them or something.

It's almost as gross as the liver and onion - - Wait, let me repeat that. Liver and onion flavored potato chips that you could get at good ol' GWC High School.

You know, the one they kicked yours truly out of for not giving a fuck anymore.

They didn't even bother to ask me why I didn't care.

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Tbc . . ?