Disclaimer: I own nothing.
The song is "I Want to Know What Love Is" by Foreigner.

Summary: Maybe I'm overreacting, but it's too late now.

Five More Minutes

I knew today wasn't going to be a good day when Paine, my lesbian live-in nanny (why yes. I am seventeen with a nanny. thanks for asking), woke me up and shoved me out of bed when I asked for "five more minutes." Nothing good happens when I'm not allowed that little bit of extra sleep.

I panicked when I saw the two of them. Sora, my au pair's girlfriend's younger brother, and Rikku, the girl who shared my name.

When I overheard Roxas and Namine, twins and Sora's younger half-siblings, talking about how Sora was going to ask out Rikku (oh god), I thought they had been talking about me. Riku, not Rikku. (oh god.)

I've been in love with Sora since I first saw him cooking pancakes in my kitchen. Kairi had said, "He cooks and creans when he is angry." (Paine said she fell in love with Kairi when she first said "bruberry.")

I fell in love with him when I mistakenly grabbed his leg, and he cried "oh knee chan!" His cute Japanese accent made listening to him more exciting.

But he doesn't love me. He loves Rikku. (oh god.) He loves the Russian blonde in his English as a Second Language class.

It stings. It hurts. It cuts so deep. I've never felt such pain before. (I want to die.) He doesn't love me. He loves her. (oh god.)

I shiver from the sudden chill that runs across my skin. I need to get home. I need to drown myself in warm water to ward off this chill. I need to get home.

Five More Minutes

I take Paine's advice for the first time in my life and "bathe the stress away." Maybe she didn't expect my bath to be like this though. My cell phone, a half-empty handle of vodka, a joint resting on a glass plate, a box cutter to cut my line of coke, a small zip-lock bag of coke resting on a different glass plate, and two burning candles line the side of the sunken tub.

I am determined to forget the last ten months of my life.

The water is scalding hot, and the jets are on full blast, but I ignore it. In fact, I can hardly tell. I've never finished off vodka so quickly, and I'm not quite sure how I'm not vomiting. I look at my cell phone, wondering if I should call him before shaking my head.

I want to forget. I light the joint with one of the candles and inhale deeply. It's good shit, so it won't take long to kick in. I open the zip-lock bag and pour some of the contents onto the plate before setting down the plastic bag. I pick up the box cutter and slide the plate closer to me.

At the second chop of the box cutter, the plate falls into the tub; and the cocaine dissolves in the water.

"Fuck!" I cry and take another hit from my joint before jabbing my fingers into the zip-lock bag and smearing the cocaine across my nostrils, hoping it will at least do something.

I wait a moment and feel nothing but the pleasant alcohol induced headache intertwining with the buzzing numbness of the pot.

But it's excellent pot, so I hardly feel the sting of the box cutter slicing my leg. The jets and the blood make the water froth red, and I search for that stupid fucking box cutter. When I feel the slightest knick on my finger, I rejoice and pull the metal to the surface of the water. It glistens with the water, no trace of red on the sharp thing.

I create shallow cuts on my forearms and rub some of the zip-lock cocaine on the tiny wounds. But nothing's happening, so I make my shallow cuts deeper and rub in the rest of the coke into my fresh cuts before rubbing the remnants of bloody coke under my nostrils.

The coke hits me harder than I expected, and I take another hit from my joint to calm it down. But it was too much cocaine. Too expensive to fall in the tub. Too expensive to rub into cuts. Too expensive not to work.

For a moment, all I can see or think about is the cut on my finger from when I picked up the box cutter. It's bleeding profusely.

Inspiration hits me. I'm going to fucking (I physically wince at the split infinitive) die here, and I want people to know who the fuck killed me. Murdered me. Stabbed me in the goddamn heart. Fucking bastard. Fucking Sora.

I stand on shaking (from lethargy, numbness, excitement) legs and slowly move my bleeding finger to the wall. The movement of my hand speeds up as I start to draw his face. His spiky hair. His big blue eyes. I think about adding the rest of my cocaine to the blood to represent a different color before I remember that I used the last of it to rub into my veins, and the blood would have dissolved it anyway so what does it matter anyway?

I quickly move on from my portrait, as incomplete as it may be, and start writing my goodbye love letter to him.

Dear Sora,

How are you? I hope you're feeling well. I'm fine.

No, that's a lie. I'm really quite upset. Why would you ask out that Russian girl? I've known you longer? I'm wealthier and more popular. I'm offended that you would choose her over me. In fact, I'm insulted.

Am I not good enough for you? Well, fuck you! You're not good enough for me either.

I look down and notice that my arm has yet to heal, and I'm feeling particularly dizzy. So I sit (fall) back down and admire my handy work.

It was written in blood, and I'm still quite drunk, high, intoxicated in general so it doesn't surprise me to see that his face looks more like a blob, and all I've actually written what kind of looks like fuck you bitch! But I'm too dizzy to be upset about that.

My whole arm shakes as I struggle to pick up my joint. It's wet and pink at the end, and I curiously wonder if that will affect my smoking experience. I light the pink end of the joint and inhale deeply.

Various thoughts swirl through my head and focus on random ones longer than others.

I'm going to die tonight. I want Sora to love me.

I wanna know what love is. That's a song. It's kind of old. I wonder why that phrase always makes me think of that song. I love Sora. Why doesn't he love me? I wonder if Mom's going to scold me for skipping class. Rikku's a fucking skank. She has a loose vagina, and Sora's going to regret breaking up with me.

I want you to show me. She always gets mad about stupid shit like that. But we were never really dating in the first place so maybe it doesn't matter. Did I forget to lock the door? I hope I'm not grounded. But I guess it doesn't matter much. Does anything matter anymore?

I wanna feel what love is. I'm cold. My skin's pruning. My finger's still bleeding?! If I stay in here long enough do I become a fish? Am I marinating in blood? If it was barbeque sauce, I'd be delicious.

I know you can show me. I would eat me, 'cause I would be one tasty fish. But barbeque is more for pigs and cows. That's morbid. I don't want to eat either. I want to eat - like - bacon. Sora can be such a fucking bitch. That shit's delicious. I love bacon.

I sink lower in the tub.

I won't wake up.

Paine will wonder why I don't answer my cell phone. She'll be curious when she doesn't find me in my room. She'll panic when she can't open the bathroom door. And she'll stare in horror when she sees my lifeless body surrounded by jet induced frothy blood.

But it won't matter, 'cause I won't wake up.