I sit alone, under the faulty lights of an old KFC.
	“Thirteen!” a man from behind the counter yells, letting me know that my microwave dinner of a meal is ready for consumption. Under normal circumstances, my feet would have broken out into a sprint. Today, however, under the weight of my guilt, all I can manage is a solemn crawl at the rate of gunshots in a Western shootout. My hand wraps around the black, dirty tray that my meal is placed upon as I offhandedly whisper thanks to the sad man and return to my seat.
	On top of this tray lies what would normally be a gift from the gods, but today the meal lies carelessly in its bowl like the slop served to school children. A “KFC Famous Bowl,” they call it, with “mouth watering” popcorn chicken laying over a desert of dried out mashed potatoes, congealed gravy, and teeth-sized kernels of corn. I stab my fork into this strange concoction of a meal, though my mind wanders to a better time.
	“If we don’t pass anywhere to eat soon, I’m going to throw up all over you,” I can vividly remember you saying on our way home from our yearly visit to Orlando.
	“There’s a KFC right there if you wa – “ And before I could finish speaking, you grabbed the side of the wheel and turned the car around. Little things like that were crazy, in hindsight, though in this case I managed to let out a chuckle. But now, this sad establishment is the last place I can seek refuge away from the voices.
	I force down a bite of the half cooked potatoes, and it scratches my throat as it goes down. I’m reminded of the time we went to the beach together. You told me that you had never heard the song of a conch shell. I searched out along the shore of the cobalt lake for one, though they had all washed away in the high tide. Ever since the day, I have been searching for your seashell, colored like the red and blue lights flashing through the window. The man at the counter gives me a strange look, and, to divert any attention, I take another bite. This bite goes down harder than the last. Suddenly, I get snapped back to reality. To how I ended up here.
	It was going good for a while. I remember our first year together, when we were madly in love. I’d rush home everyday from work just to see your smiling face, your eyebrows lazed as you read the newest novel in the Hunger Games trilogy. These small moments are all I can remember from back then now, and the things you whispered in my ear still chill me to the bone. I struggle to swallow another bite, similar to our relationship, and I try my hardest to remember these sweet moments.
	But today it’s different. I can’t avoid the truth any longer.
	“What did you do with her!” her shaky voice screamed, reverberating inside the smallest crannies of my soul.
	“… I can’t believe it,” I remember saying dumbfounded, struggling to form my emotions into words.
	“What can’t you believe?! Did you not expect me to figure out? You may leave me at home all day to whittle away my solitary existence, but the least I am is sheltered.”
These words stung me to my core and it felt as if all of my taste buds dried up. My fiancé, the first love of my life, and here she stood in front of me, outright denying any claims that I may throw at her. This emotion surged throughout me, and I felt like the Energizer bunny’s drum, smacked around one too many times and finally let off its leash. Adrenaline surged through my veins as I smacked her across her porcelain face, and her complexion shattered.
	“That’s it!” I remember her shouting, “I can’t deal with this anymore – you, the violence, your lies; I’m leaving.” But I couldn’t lose her. I don’t remember what happened next – sorrow and pitiful anger overtook my very existence, and in a moment she was limp in my bed, in the same position as when she was reading the newest Hunger Games novel. I lost her that night.
	“Stop! You’re under arrest!” This voice ripped holes through my subconscious. This voice… no, this wasn’t hers. This wasn’t how it happened.  I’m snapped back to reality, where a forkful of food trembles in my hand uncontrollably. That’s when I notice who was at the door – a police officer, about six foot tall, with muscles similar in size to that of Goku from Dragon Ball Z. On any other day, I would have run far away, seeking refuge inside an old KFC. No, I whisper to myself, I’m not running anymore. Shaking, I slowly rise to my feet, and the man runs behind me and cuffs my wrists together.
	“These hands can harm no one no longer,” the officer whispers in my right ear. He escorts me out of the old building, away from the flickering lights and questionable employees, and I’m left as a shattered conch shell of a man, chained and filled with the dried-out remains of a KFC Famous Bowl.