WARNING: This story contains alcohol usage, drug abuse, and self harm all possible triggers.
Authors Note: I just got this idea in my head and i needed to get it out so here it is! Im still debating on whether or not i should make a second chapter where someone finds out the things that they do and help them recover. This isn't my best writing and im not too proud of how this turned out, the only one I actually feel good on is Nick's story part thingy. Enjoy!
Clementine was almost never sober. When she was she would be anxious and snap easily. Ever since Nick gave her that whiskey in the cellar, she wanted more alcohol. It helped her forget the world. She always snuck drinks even in dangerous times, at Howes, at the ski lodge, everywhere. She always wanted a drink and eagerly took one any chance she got. Luke and Kenny almost caught her once. But it never stopped her from stealing another bottle of rum or moonshine. Hell, even beer helped her. All Clementine wanted to do was get drunk, even if it meant danger to her and the rest of the group. She hated the gruesome world she lived in, constantly hanging on by a thread. The drinks made her happy and easy-minded. She didn't care that some day her liver would give out. Clementine was almost never sober because she didn't like to be sober.
Luke was addicted. He was addicted to the pills. Any pills. He knew it was bad, he knew that they needed the medicine they found for injuries, he just couldn't help it. They numbed him. They helped him be in a happier mood. Every time he saw a bottle of pills he twitched, he couldn't do anything else but think about them. Somehow he always wound up locked in a room with a bottle that he downed fast, crying to himself at the monster he'd become. He knew it was dangerous, the pills could kill him, but in a way they were harming the group more than himself. Luke was addicted to the pills, and he didn't know how to stop it.
Nick always wore long sleeves. He always wore long sleeves to hide what would scare even most grown men. When he was alone, Nick would take out a pocket knife or anything sharp enough and put it to his skin. He smiled at the red crimson orbs that forms as soon as he pressed the object down to his skin and smoothly slid it in a jagged line across. Yeah, if someone knew they would think he was mental. He himself thought he was mental. He'd gotten so used to seeing his arms decorated with dark and light red lines that whenever someone rolled up their sleeves he half expected them to have scars too. But no one ever did. He didn't dare rolled up even to his wrist. He had fresh ones, old ones, healed ones, deep ones all over. Nick didn't care he had nothing to live for anyways. He though he deserved the pain it gave him. The burning sting when the cloth of his long sleeves brushed against recent cuts. He even craved it sometimes, a way to relive stress he called it. He knew that wasn't the case though. That's why Nick always wore long sleeves.
Everyone has their secrets. Some are just worst than others, and Clementine, Luke, and Nick had the worst ones.