Disclaimer: I own nothing but the general plot of the story. I do not own the characters in the story, I do not own their identities, and nothing I say or put into the story is a direct reflection omy the true identities of my characters. I do not claim anything I say or put into the story to be true. I do not claim to own anything but the plot and the idea of the story.


One of the scariest moments in life is the moment you know you need something, but you won't do it. When you realize that you're in too deep and you need to keep yourself from going under, but you refuse to help yourself, and for that very reason you continue to drown.

I'm not a snap or anything. I don't have a death wish, like it's presumed. I don't help myself, simply for the hell of it. I don't want to stop. It's thrilling, an all-time rollercoaster rush. As if the adrenaline itself is addicting.

And when you realize that you won't help yourself, because you don't want to help yourself, that's scary.

Isn't it?


I've given up almost all hope for myself, honestly. Recently, it's gotten so bad that I categorize certain events into two columns inside my head. Events that happened before the Thing, and events after the Thing. It's gotten so bad that I hardly remember what exactly happened in the events leading up to the Thing. I somewhat realize how it's not noticeable. Or maybe it IS noticeable; I just can't notice because I'm just that involved. Whatever the reason is, I know that I'm totally out of it.

You have any idea what it's like to know that you're helpless? To put it simply, the feeling sucks. Flat out, it sucks. But it's better than living in the empty shell of what my life used to be, so I'll take it.

My motto has always been to take life by the horns and live it with no regrets, no matter what that actually means. Quite frankly I'm not sure about the last part. I mean, of course I regret the decisions that led me to this, but I'm not ready to give it up. I have regrets, sure. I can think of a couple in particular, actually. But there's no sense in dwelling on it. It's happened and what's done is done. What's done is in the past, and my past has already dictated my future. I'm going to have to live with that. Like I said, I'm a hopeless case.

My house in the morning is what everyone wishes their house could be like. It's not like you would think it is. The cliché type thing, I mean. It's not at all like that. We all like to sleep in, my stepdad especially. I greatly enjoy sleeping in, but I can never sleep past ten in the morning. I guess that's my internal body clock. This makes today no different. I wake up at 10:21 in the morning.

Everybody else is still asleep in my house, so it's quiet. I like it better when it's quiet, though these days silence really disturbs me.

Nevertheless, I walk down the creaky steps of my enormous house. My house is something I'm proud of. I bought it myself for my family. It was 1.2 million dollars, not including the furniture. I've put my family through hell, the least I could do is buy them a house. I appreciate how we never talk about though. It's quite obvious to them, or at least it has to be. It's always on some kind of gossip site, so I don't know how they can avoid it so casually. They obviously know, but we don't talk about it. I settle for that.

I open up the fridge and look around. Nothing looks appetizing for breakfast, but I have to eat some real food sometime. I'll starve to death if I don't, though that doesn't sound like a half bad idea to me. I don't really taste anything anymore, and I'm never hungry. But if I don't have a full stomach before I interact with the Thing, I get really bad.

I grab a box of Cheerios and a carton of milk. I pour enough cereal to graze the bottom of the bowl and spill a couple drops of milk in the bowl over the cereal. It's not much to eat, but it's enough to make me mellow when I interact with the Thing. I finish off the cereal in three spoonfuls and put my bowl in the sink.

I have to wait a few minutes before I can properly finish "eating." I have to wait to actually feel full. I check the time on the clock on the stove. It's 10:45. I'll go finish at 10:55. I'll give the food ten minutes to set in.

My dog, Bailey wanders into the kitchen. She sniffs her empty food bowl, and I hear her tongue hit the bottom in search of food. I reach down and scratch behind her ear lovingly before I grab the bag of dog food from the pantry and fill her bowl up with the foul-smelling crunchy stuff. I pour a little bit of water in her bowl, too.

Going to the living room is pointless whenever the door to the bathroom is here in the kitchen, so I sit down at one of the chairs in my kitchen.

For one, I'm screwed if my parents ever decide to look in my room. I'm sure they know about it, but if they ever found it in my room, I'm for sure dead. And for two, I'm not even 100% sure that they know; though they'd be pretty dumb to not know. But I don't put anything past my parents anymore, though. I could tell my mom a dumb lie like "I was at the grocery store for three hours" and come home looking a wreck. She'd believe it. My parents are actually oblivious, my dad a little more than my mom, though.

I check the time on the stove again. It's 10:56. I step down out of the chair and turn the handle to the door to the bathroom. I shut and lock the bathroom from the inside and begin. This next thing probably won't come as a shock to you.

At first, it was hard, but in time it got easier. Like, at first, I wasn't sure if I'd ever get used to the constant burning in the back of my throat or the horrible taste in my mouth. But it got really easy after a while. It's second-nature to me now.

I flip open the toilet seat and look into the clear waters. I lick my lips and suck in a really deep breath. It's easier to breathe whenever I take a breath first. I check my nails. They're cleanly bitten off, as they usually are. I use my index and middle fingers and open my mouth wide. I stick my two fingers knuckle-deep down my throat, my shoulders hunch up, and abracadabra. Up comes the milk and the tiny little cheerios. I spit hard into the toilet and wipe my mouth with the palm of my hand. My eyes are watering, but that's normal. They always do. My throat is burning, but that's usual. It always does. I turn on the water, scrub my hands clean and rinse my mouth out. Now that that's finished, I can interact with the Thing.

The thing and I have a very… love/hate relationship. The Thing is my very best friend. It makes me feel wholesome, sane and calm whenever I'm on edge. I love the Thing.

But I hate what it's done to me. It's made me weak and defenseless. I hate being weak and defenseless. But I need the Thing. I'd love to divorce it; to break away from it and never speak to it ever again. But I'm not that strong, and I am vulnerable. I hate myself for that.

I trudge up the stairs to my room and go over in the corner beside my computer. I usually keep the Thing waiting in a small cup next to my phone charger. I find my Thing in its hiding spot and grab it. It's gone. It's empty. That doesn't work for me. I have to leave before I get irritable.

Everyone in my house is unbelievably still asleep, which is perfect. I dash back down the steps and grab my car keys. I never leave out like this, but this is an emergency. I go out the front door and slide into my little black car, still wearing my pajamas and my teeth unbrushed. I've had better days.

I have to hurry, because I'm starting to sweat. Sweating is the first step. I step on the gas hard and ride the small overpass to Him.

I'm not sure if I love Him. I mean, sure, I have love FOR Him, but I don't know if I really love Him. He is a little to blame for this, but not much. It's mostly me to blame.

In a little under five minutes, I make it to his house. His house is the equivalent of a shack. It's small, run down and really shitty. He keeps a shit house to keep a low profile, though. If he were living alone in a big mansion like he can really afford, it would be expected. His family is rich, so I think he'd still be able to pass with a nice house. But he doesn't take chances.

I park in his little driveway and step out the car. I knock on the door twice and wait. I'm never supposed to knock more than twice. Anybody that knocks more than twice has potential to be the police.

He doesn't open the door for me. One of his friends does. His friend with greasy, long brown hair and an unshaved chin-strap.

It's Ryan. I know Ryan won't hurt me. Ryan has a crush on me. "Hey, Ryan. He home?"

"Right upstairs. What do you need?" Ryan's breath smells like beer, but I can tolerate it. It's not necessarily a bad smell.

"I'm out." I look down at the cement porch and blush. I'm not embarrassed or anything. Just a little flushed.

Ryan steps aside and lets me into the house. The smell always surprises me in here. I'll never get used to it. It smells like paint, cigarettes, liquor and marijuana. I turn a corner to the steps and Ryan slaps my ass.

Half of me wants to slap him across his face, but I'm in no position to cause a rift. I need something and He is the only way for me to get it. If I slap his friend, he'll probably put me out.

I walk into the tiny little bedroom up the stairs. It is dirty in here. I will never sleep here. I don't like dirty surroundings.

When I walk into the bedroom, I see Him. He is lying in his bed smoking a joint. It's early in the morning for me, but not for him. This "party" probably just started. Then again, the party never ends over here. It kind of hurts to see what I see.

He is my boyfriend, I think. We have sex sometimes. I kiss him like boyfriends and girlfriends kiss. He tells me he loves me, and I tell him I love him too. But he has others. He is my only.

So when I see him in his bed with the lighted joint in his hand and a skinny, pale faced, black haired girl mounted on his lap moving in the steadfast rocking manner, I'm hurt. I know he has others, but I've never caught him like this.

He grunts and it saddens me. I'm not going to cry, though. I just clear my throat in a loud "eh-hem."

"….Be right there babe… wh… what do you need?" He speaks to me through his own murmured pleasure and the girl's loud shrieks.

"…I'm out." I whisper a little low.

"Huh?" He's breathing hard.

"I said I'm out." I speak up.

"Look in my… my bathroom…. T…there's some i… in there… grab as much as you n…need. I'll cal… call you later." As he finishes talking to me, the girl screams out in loud climax. I roll my eyes and listen to Him.

I go into the bathroom and grab another sandwich bag full and head back down the steps. I'm not upset or anything. It's not like I didn't know what he does with other girls, it's just that I wish he wouldn't. I guess I love him, so I won't do anything to jeopardize that.

Just as I reach the door, Ryan stops me again. "That got you in the mood up there?" He asks me.

It's not that Ryan's ugly, he's just far from my type. Plus, he smokes cigarettes so that's completely unappealing. I guess I shouldn't talk about anybody's nasty habits, though.

"…See you later." I mumble to Ryan and go back out to my car. I'm already feeling irritable. I don't think I'd like Him if he didn't supply me with my Thing.

I step back into my car and back out of his driveway. I didn't bring my phone, otherwise I'd be surprised if my mom or dad didn't call me.

It only takes me five minutes to get home, but I can't wait.

While I'm driving, I reach into my sandwich baggie and pour some into my hand while I'm at a stoplight. I honestly disgust myself at how I lean my nose down into the powder and sniff hard, as if it's the last thing I'll ever smell.

The Thing kisses my nose with it's soft powdery state and penetrates through my nose, immediately rushing up into my brain. I feel so much better. I already feel calmer, which has me worried.

I continue breathing through my nose until all the powder is sucked up through my nostril.

It's sad how I'm not in the least ashamed of myself or anything.

It's sad how the only thing I'm thinking about right now is Him. I wish he loved me in the same way I think I love him.

Someday, I want to get married and have lots of little babies. I don't know if it's completely possible anymore, considering my relationship with the Thing, but it's a nice dream to have. I don't know if that'll ever be possible with Him, either.

I admit, he isn't exactly the pick of the liter. He is grungy, tattooed and a little bit of a sleaze. But when love finds you, you can't help that. He is a little too tattooed for my parents and all, which is why they don't like me with him. But who gives a damn? I'm seventeen, not a baby. They'd probably really hate him if they knew the shit he was really into.

Though I think I love him, I'd like to find real love someday.

But I'm a hopeless case.