Sirens blared, alarming myself further more to the mess I’ve placed myself into.

“How am I gonna get out of this one?” I mumble quietly aloud. I turn to my side, expecting to see my mates in (unintended) crime having the same mental battle, but only to catch the last glimpse of their car as they skid away down the street. I look back at the mauled house. Tiredness, weakness, and fear cause me to drop my head into the palms of my hands.

Just then, police lights slowly encroach on the supposed crime scene.

I stand up, somehow making me feel less defeated, and wait until they reach the house.

When they arrive, they’ve immediately assumed that I’m aggressive and armed, treating me like a serial killer. All but a small lie led to this. How could I have known?

The one thing I manage to say to the police before I’m forcefully escorted away is, “It wasn’t meant to end like this.”