I woke up the next day with a splitting headache, and an empty bottle by my bedside. Of course Kayle had actually listened and left, and of course I had drank myself to sleep. Sitting up, I rubbed my temples slowly before swinging out of bed to grab some aspirin and a glass of water. Waiting the accustomed fifteen minutes till the painkillers kicked in, I then got dressed and pulled a coat on along with my beret. The outside air was chilly, and then I realised that I had slept through the day, and it was about nine at night.

"Shit." I frowned, but then remembered that my boss had given me the day off anyway. Just then, my phone started buzzing, and I got a call from a druggie telling me he needed an order, and the address to deliver it to. I sighed, and went back inside to grab my bag with the coke. Yeah, coke. Goddamn, I dealt some horrid stuff. Soon enough, I had walked to the place he gave me, and delivered the drugs unharmed. It was on the way home that caused trouble.

Walking down a sidewalk seems safe enough, but when you can't really think straight, you aren't as paranoid as you should be. I didn't notice a figure walking up to me until he had my arm in his iron grasp. The stench of beer and numerous other alcohols became evident as I raised my face to look him in the eye, and he began muttering under his breath.

"Mmm… Yes. You are very nice." He was looking me up and down, and paid extra attention to my chest. The man then laughed sadistically, and turned, dragging me with him despite my loud protests and attempts to free myself. "Shut up, bitch." He snapped, yanking me to a stop at an old, creaky door.

We ended up in a run-down apartment that only had a bed in the centre, and I then realised his intentions through my post-drunkenness stupor. "No! Let me go, damn it!" I started yelling, but soon after, I was sabotaged from behind with a roll of duct tape. He bound my wrists to the headboard, and then stretched my legs out to bind them to the foot of the bed. I kicked, but only ended up getting slapped and told to keep quiet. Whimpering slightly, I obeyed. I didn't want to make this worse than it was going to be.

Soon, all of my limbs and my mouth were restrained, and he began to rip the clothes from my back. First my shirt, then my bra, leaving my breasts to bounce freely about as he roughly pulled the skirt I was wearing down to my ankles and cut it in half with a knife, freeing it from being on me at all. He looked hungrily at my panties, and then a sort of animalistic look became him, and he tore them off of me. Licking his lips, he began to undress himself until he was left in just his boxers. Did I mention that he wasn't exactly the smallest person in the world?

From there, it was kind of a blur, but sometime in there, he passed out on the floor, and I managed to get my bruised body out of the restraints and get dressed as well as I could. On the walk home, my eyes finally let go of the tears that they were trying so desperately to withhold, and by the time I collapsed on my couch, I was sobbing. I kind of just lay there in a fetal position, shaking my head and saying no to myself. Soon enough, I got up, and grabbed another bottle of alcohol, glancing at my 'drug' bag. I disagreed with myself for a moment, but gave in. Pulling out some heroin, I loaded up a syringe and tied off my arm.

Taking a deep breath, I slid the needle in and let the warm honey of a horribly sweet high take over, and that's when I let myself go. I downed two bottles of vodka, and more than enough drugs- not just heroin. I think I took everything I had. I was wasted, completely drunk and high off of my ass. I started hallucinating, and thinking more than usual about nothing. Giggling, I took another drag off of my joint, and snorted another long line of cocaine before taking a swig from a third bottle of vodka.

And that's when I saw the razor peeking out of my backpack. Why not just end this faster? Then there was the sweet metallic feel of the cold metal passing over my skin, sinking beneath the visible layers to the red gold beneath. Bubbling up through the surface, I had barely made a cut when I took a firmer hold of the razor and buried it as deep as I could in my left wrist, and then repeating the same process on my right.

I barely remember passing out, but I remember the dream that I had. I was trapped in a small cell, and when the guy that raped me came in, the floor vanished and I was dropped into kind of a torture room. My dad was there, waiting with a saw and chains. I started to run, gasping desperately for breath, and had almost given up trying to get away from him when I found a door. Slamming it shut behind me, I could hear my dad screaming at me as I kept running.

Finally, I ended up somewhere that wasn't so bad, even if it wasn't that realistic. For some reason, I ended up in a school classroom with my seventh and eighth grade Social Studies teacher, and the rest of my class from those years. None of them had faces, Their heads turned at once, and I was then staring into empty complexions as I screamed, the tears pouring down my face. It began to grow lighter in the room, and the walls seemed to generate bright white. I could hear beeping and shouting, and my mouth tasted dry. And all I felt was pain.

It was blinding me after it started, and seemed brighter than the light I had seen at first, and it filled all of my senses. My body was on fire, searing with uncontrollable pain, and my throat started to strain itself as I yelled. Then I heard a voice. It was familiar, but I wasn't thinking straight enough to determine who it was. "Oh, God. Let her be alright. Please, damn you!" It sounded like they were sobbing, and I stopped screaming long enough to listen, but then the agony took over once more, stopping my consciousness once more.


When I woke up again, there was no pain. My eyes opened blearily, cracking the sleep from them and widening in shock as I realised where I was. I recognised the smells of sterility, life, and death. The hospital noises surrounded me, enveloping me in a sense of false security, and the sights are always the same. Or should be. This was when I noticed Kayle sitting in the corner, his head in his hands. Those large, slender, shaking hands. He was crying. His muscled shoulders were rocking, and I could see tear stains on the old worn blue jeans that he had on.

"K-Kayle?" I choked out, managing to recover from my shock of seeing him there, much less see him crying. It wasn't like him at all. There wasn't any emotion attached to crying in Kayle's repertoire, much less sobbing itself.

He looked up at me, shocked. "Snitch?" His bloodshot eyes crinkled at the corners, not believing that I was here, it seemed like, and then Kayle was by my side in an instant. "Are you feeling ok?"

This proceeded questions of all sorts, and it turns out that he had found me unconscious and bleeding on my couch, needles and joints littering the floor and resting besides three empty bottles of vodka. Also, there wasn't a chance that I would get a chance to do something like that again. He was going to make sure of it.