10

Blake Murray's funeral was small and bleak. Not many showed, except for his family, Brent, and a few others. The past week had been a nightmare. David Floyd, father of the deceased Scott Floyd, completely discredited, shamed, and otherwise destroyed the Murray family all while putting his son up as a martyr against the dangerous drug dealing ways of Blake. Everything, of course, was Blake's fault. His parents where scrutinized to the fullest extent by the six o'clock news as what was wrong with the youth of suburbia. It was truly disgusting. The Murrays where moving states, taking with them their last shrouds of dignity.

Brent had not spoken to anyone since the phone call he made to Morgan that night. She just stayed holed up in her room, not coming out. Everything was still amidst all of the commotion. There was nothing left to say. Blake was dead, Scott was dead, and everything changed. Brent didn't even know if he could look at Morgan anymore. He couldn't look at himself. When he came back from the funeral he took one look at himself at the opulent gilded mirror his hallway and smashed it to pieces, getting glass slivers stuck into his hands. He didn't feel the pain.

Morgan had not left the safe confines of her bedroom all week. Nothing bad had ever happened to her here. If she would just stay here, under the covers with the door shut tight and the blinds drawn maybe everything would be fine. She would never be hurt again. You leave your room, bad shit happens. Her arms were a bloody, scarred mess. She just didn't feel pain anymore, becoming immune to everything in the physical world. She was pale and skeletal, she had not looked in any mirrors in days.

Robin King stepped into her front hall and breathed in the smell that was home. Coming back from a month in St Tropez made her miss home too much. Endless French nightclubs and beaches distracted her from memories of her days of just hanging out in the heat with her best friend Morgan Burke. She knew Blake Murray died, yet didn't care much, she hated him anyway. She picked up the phone and dialed Morgan's cell. No one picked up. Frowning, she threw her portable phone carelessly onto her massive ruby-sheeted canopy bed and decided to reapply her makeup, figuring she was going to go out soon anyway.

Robin had gotten nice and tanned on her getaway, a healthy glow and complemented her deep cherry red hair. All of that creamy French cuisine and alcohol also filled her out a bit, making her more curvaceous. A green tube dress covered up her slight beer belly and accentuated her cleavage. She was impatient and decided to call Brent to see what was going on. She really wanted to go out, no matter how jet lagged she was.

"Hello?" Brent answered after the first ring.

"Hey Brent baby! I'm back!"

"Oh, hey Robin, how was your trip?"

"It was amazing, but I missed the crew so much, what's on for tonight?"

"Uh…you do know that shit has hit the fan this past week right?"

"Clearly, but its not like they didn't have it coming. Honestly, I don't know why everyone is grieving for these drug-peddling Skegs."

"Christ Robin, you are such a fucking bitch sometimes."

"You like it, now where the fuck is Morgan? I've been trying to reach her like, all day."

"She's in her room, in one of those moods where she is ignoring life in general."

"Fuck I hate her life hater stages, I need to go fucking party, and so does she."

"Look, just don't bother her ok? She's had it rough, we all have. The last thing we need is you fucking shit up again."

"Whatever." Robin hung up the phone in anger, flopping down on her bed and groaning out of the sheer frustration that nothing was going her way.