Luca’s POV

The guitar riffs slip into a frequency that makes my ears cringe but I’m too tired to turn it down. The louder, the better. The less senses I have, the better. I hate this. I stare at my ceiling, trailing my finger up and down my headphone cord, rolling it between them like a cigarette.

I feel trapped, so fucking trapped by this body. I want to scream, to thrash my limbs into dislocation like I’m drowning. Because I am, drowning here, in a flood of my own fucking idiotic thoughts. I don’t even like rock, I don’t know how I got here, I’m not even angry, just…crushed.

I watch the ceiling, like it’s going to change. I stare into the lights until the bulbs have burned themselves into the back of my eyelids.

I push down the hunger brewing in my stomach; I don’t need that right now. I close my eyes, before I feel hands on my back, and everything comes crashing awake.

I haven’t eaten in weeks because our money was tight, but honestly, what good even is food at this point? It’s only going to make me gain weight. And cost money.

I shift a little, before my hand lands right on my stomach, feeling so much fucking bigger than I want it to. I shift again, but I can’t find a position that feels comfortable, I fucking hate this, I hate myself, I hate everyone.

Why the fuck, how, even, am I here?

I’m not this. Whatever this is, it’s not me.

***

Bianca’s POV

Well, this is fun.

I’m actually, seriously, having a staring contest with an inanimate object.

Right.

Because staring at the pair of scissors on your desk is a very normal thing to do at 9PM on a Saturday evening.

Emma’s out, Rani doesn’t answer her texts past 8, and Ciara and Giulia ran away to Paris the other day for some reason.

So I guess I’m just going to stare at scissors until one of us breaks. Except the only one who can break is me, so I’m either going to fall asleep here, back awkwardly against my wardrobe, or we’re going back to long sleeves by tomorrow.

I’m not fucking going back.

Just, whatever I do, when I try and stop myself, it all feels so fucking vapid. Like there’s nothing that could satisfy me the way it does.

Like there’s only two possibilities, two fucking things in this world that would do anything for me.

To cut, or to be loved.

And we all know that last one isn’t happening at fucking 9PM on a Saturday, when I’m sitting all alone at home.

God, that’s probably why I killed myself in the first place, I wasn’t loved. It’s so fucking cringey out loud, so cliche, so overdone and teenager girl-like and almost sickly in its sentiments but it’s true.

It’s so fucking true and I hate it.

I can’t fucking be original in my depression and that just adds to the straight tragedy, the anger of this whole fucking thing.

Is it the fact that maybe a fucking pair of scissors could rival what it feels like to be loved?

God, I don’t know, maybe?

Fucking maybe.

Fucking try me.

I could either jump out of my window, or climb out if it, and run away, that would be just as good.

How the fuck is that just as good?

Fucking how.

Emma’s POV

I’m almost definitely wasting water at this point, but it’s calming me down, even if it’s soaking my clothes. And the warm water’s calming my stomach. I’ve eaten a whole box of cereal and two family sized chocolate bars, because those seemed to help at the time, but now I just feel nauseous.

I inhale the air again, holding a finger over one nostril, inhaling the thick, deodorant laden air.

I could probably get high off this if I tried, though I have no clue how. It’s just helping with the fact that I need the sensation of snorting something.

I hate that.

Snorting something.

Why the fuck do I get the ugliest word?

What, heroin addicts get to shoot up, potheads get to blaze and I get to snort shit.

Like a pig.

Well, I’m probably no better, am I?

Ricardo’s in jail right now, he gets out in a couple months now. He was convicted in March, so yeah. Year and half for possession of a straight up double edged butterfly knife in a school he didn’t even go to. And no excuse.

Good thinking there, Ricardo.

I am so very honoured to be your sister.

When he gets back, I wonder if I’m going to have to go full cold turkey. Or if he’d keep supplying me. Nah, he’s a smuggler, not a dealer. He wouldn’t let me, not even for a price.

I wonder if he’d care about me before he cares about himself. His “business”. God, why am I bashing him for dealing when I’m no fucking better?

No bashing anything to do with drugs anymore. You gotta defend it all, until your new acquaintance become concerned as to why you care so much about criminals.

Fuck.

That makes me a criminal.