South Park © Matt & Trey.


I'm back at work, even though I don't want to be. I feel like every little thing is setting me off and I have to try so fucking hard to keep myself calm. I want to reach forward and choke every stupid asshole that even looks at me.

"Cool it," Stan warns me. "You're scaring everyone."

"Shut up," I mutter.

I try to remain quiet for the rest of my shift. I don't want to get in trouble. I definitely can't afford to lose this job. I like this job. It's easy and pleasant enough. I can't see myself doing anything else.

When I go home, I shower right away to get rid of the wet-dog stink. This is the only con to working with animals – I always end up smelling like them.

I put on plaid pajama pants and a plain, black t-shirt before going downstairs. Kenny is in the kitchen making soup. He offers me some. I'm not particularly hungry, but I decide to force some down anyway. I go through these phases where I have no appetite. Then I go through other phases where I eat like a horse.

At least Kenny is a good cook – far better than I ever was.

Afterward, I lock myself in my room and get high. Becca comes over later in the night and we do it all again.

We lie side by side and for a while it's quiet. We just soak up the feeling and we soak up each other. Then, out of the blue –

"Maybe we should slow down."

"Why?" I ask, turning my head to face her.

"Well… we've been doing this a lot since your grandmother died," she points out cautiously.

I scoff at her, ready to lash out. "It's not because of that!" I tell her sharply.

She isn't taken aback by my outburst. By now, she's used to them. "All right," she says. "Chill out. Shit." A pause. "Then what the hell is it?"

I sit up and let out a loud, whiny groan, rubbing my hands up and down my face. "It's nothing… I just feel shitty."

"Because of your Nan?"

"Stop saying that!" I shout, turning to look at her. I get out of bed and stomp out of the room. She follows, asking me where I'm going. I don't answer her. I just grab my coat and put on my shoes. Then I grab the dog, which makes it obvious where I'm going.

"The dog is in pretty rough shape," Becca says softly. "Why didn't you get a cuter one?"

"I didn't want a cuter one," I tell her. I stare down at him, hooking the leash to his collar. He stares back at me with his one eye. I don't think he's ugly, but looking at him makes me kind of sad and that just makes me want to ensure his happiness. I put my hand on his head, petting him. "He's cute enough."

With that, I leave. Becca will still be there when I return.

It's dim outside and the streetlights are already on. I stare up at the moon. It's full tonight. All the crazies are probably down at the bar by now. Then again, maybe not. Maybe some of them are like me, just drifting.

I don't like thinking of myself as crazy, but sometimes I act it. It's like that book – Sometimes I Act Crazy.

Since I refused therapy, the doctor who gave me my diagnosis told me to do a bit of reading instead. She gave me a bunch of titles and I went to the book store and bought them. I felt like I was reading my autobiography, all the nasty, negative things about myself that everyone hates. I take everything so personally. I'm so defensive. I can criticize myself, but the second someone else criticizes me I'm a hundred percent ready to flip out on them. There's never room to reason with me. I recognize all this stuff and I think I'll be able to put the knowledge to use, but when the time comes I can't and I end up having a fit. It's like my mind goes blank apart from what I'm currently scared of or worried about. Reason is lost to the wind.

I walk Uno down the road and let him take a shit on Eric Cartman's lawn. When he's done, I continue walking down the street. When I'm about to pass my parents' home, the door swings open and Ruby exits. I pause when I see her and she pauses when she sees me. Then she locks the door and slowly walks down the driveway to meet me.

She looks like she's headed to a party, though it's a school night. She's probably in with an older crowd. I hate the thought of my little sister being around creepy frat boys, but I can't really tell her how to live her life. That would make me a fucking hypocrite. Plus, I haven't been around.

"Hey…" she says. "Long time."

"Hey," I echo.

"You got a dog," she notes, staring down at Uno before petting his head.

"No one else wanted him," I explain.

"That was nice of you."

"I guess," I say with a shrug. Then it's quiet – uncomfortably so. "Uh, anyway…" I start.

"Yeah, I gotta go," she finishes.

"Be safe," I say out of the blue.

She smiles and nods, waving before turning around and walking the opposite direction.

I make my way back home, unhooking the leash from the dog's collar. He runs upstairs. I take my coat and shoes off before following.

Becca is in my room playing with her phone while she sits on my bed. "Feeling better?" she asks.

"I guess," I say, though I'm not quite sure. "I saw my sister."

Becca sets her phone down and glances up at me. "How was it?"

I join her on the mattress and shrug. "Okay. Kind of weird. We didn't really say much. I think she was going to a party. I told her to be safe."

Uno jumps on the bed and sits on my lap. Sometimes I think big dogs forget how big they are. Nonetheless, I put my arms around him.

"You're more affectionate with that dog than you are with me," Becca says.

"Jealous?" I ask sweetly, resting my cheek against the dog's fur.

"Maybe," she admits with a chuckle.

"Well," I start, "he needs affection. He was treated like shit before he got to the shelter and even after that people didn't want to play with him because he's mangled. Only the staff played with him and our time was limited."

She smiles at me and coos, "Aw. I like this. I'm seeing the soft side of Craig Tucker."


Becca leaves at some point in the night, saying she works early. The stupid video store is open 24-hours a day, which is a ridiculous idea because it hardly gets any business.

Around noon, Kenny makes his way into my room. He looks chipper and energetic. "No work today?" he asks.

"No," I respond groggily.

"What do you wanna do?" Kenny asks. "Fuck?"

"No…" I groan, rolling over in bed.

"Dude, you're strung out," he says, sitting down on the edge of my bed. "When are you gonna stop doing drugs?"

"When I'm dead," I spit out.

He clicks his tongue at me. "Tsk, dude, I already told you that you're not going to die. At least not any time soon."

"And I already told you that I don't believe you," I retort.

He frowns, glancing away and staring down at his hands. "If I asked you, would you quit? I mean… if I really pleaded with you? Like, we could come up with some compromise. I'll give up something and you'll give up drugs… or whatever… I'd do anything you wanted me to…"

I force myself up into a sitting position. "Sorry, Kenny. That's not how it works and you know it. I can't quit for you. I'd have to do it for me and that's not gonna happen any time soon."

"Yeah," he murmurs. "Well… I thought I'd try." He stares at me and smiles, but I can tell it's forced because he looks fucking miserable. "Hey," he says offhandedly, "is there anything you like about me?"

"Sure," I say, "lots of things."

"Like what?" he asks, prying for details.

"I like your eyes," I tell him.

"But why? They're the same color as yours."

"It's not just the color…" I explain. "They're blue, sure, and that's nice… but they're also big and expressive and, I dunno, I guess I like that. They're brighter than mine are. Mine look kind of dim in comparison."

My eyes are just tired. I have dark circles and bags and I look like I haven't slept in ten years. Kenny's look young and curious and innocent.

"Thanks," he says, sounding sincere. "Sorry… I guess I'm just in the mood for some reassurance."

I don't think people compliment him much. If they do, they're senseless compliments. He probably hears a lot of shit like, "You give good head," or, "You're good in bed." Those compliments aren't really compliments at all. They don't mean anything.

"It's okay," I tell him. "I need reassurance often, too… but most people know that by now so I hardly have to ask for it." I shrug unceremoniously. "I'm a manipulative asshole. People always say it about me and I guess they're right. I'm always twisting things around and trying to pull reactions out of people. I try to make them say certain things. I'm pretty good with the guilt trips, too."

Kenny wrinkles his nose. "I just don't think they understand," he says. "People with BPD get a bad rep."

"Hm," I muse.

"I think you're also at a risk of being manipulated."

"Yeah, maybe," I say, wondering if he's right.

Kenny smiles a small smile.

He loves me.

I always feel it when he looks at me and maybe I take advantage of him for it. I feel reassured. I don't do it to be cruel, but I'm selfish because I'm insecure. Kenny offers me stability in life and stability in my sense of identity – which is often distorted. Kenny doesn't let me manipulate him. He never budges or changes. Becca does. She moves when I want her to and she's forced herself to change parts of herself for me. That's why she can't ever offer me the kind of stability Kenny does.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks me.

"You," I confess. "Good things about you."

Before he can say something sappy in response, I get out of bed and tell him I'm going to shower. I move across the hall and turn on the taps, stripping and stepping into the shower.

I don't know why I felt like I had to leave before he could respond, but I did. Sometimes when he gets sappy or emotional it stresses me out and makes me feel even guiltier than I feel on a regular basis. I feel like I'm giving him false hope. I'm not even trying to. Sometimes these things just pop out of my mouth.

After a while, I hear the door open. I pull back the curtains slightly and see Kenny begin to undress. "What the fuck?" I ask him. "I'm in here!"

"You're going to use up all the hot water like you always do," he points out, "and I work tonight." Once he's naked, he pushes me aside and steps into the shower with me.

"What the fuck?" I deadpan.

"Chill," he says. "It's not like I haven't seen you naked before. In fact, I've licked your butthole. So, this really isn't any worse."

"Yes, it is," I insist, though it makes no sense. I like my shower time to be private on most days. I don't know why, but I do a lot of thinking when I'm in the shower. I end up distracted. That's probably why I take so long.

"Well, sure, this time my boner isn't in your ass," he says crudely, "but apart from that…"

"I've fucked you before," I point out.

"Yeah," he relents unceremoniously, "but we both know you prefer it on the bottom. You're a natural."

He sits on the edge of the tub while I shower on the opposite end. He grabs the shaving cream and lathers it all over his right leg.

"I've never seen a dude shave before," I say, distracted by the unfamiliarity of it all.

Kenny eyes me and snorts, "Clearly."

I raise a leg and kick him.

"Ouch…" he whines. "Don't distract me or I'll nick myself," he warns. "Besides, I'm just playing around. I like you with pubes. They're cute."

"Cute?" I repeat in disbelief.

He snickers. "Yeah, cute. Everything about you is pretty cute. I don't know, there's something really aesthetically appealing about thick, dark hair. I like your hair, all of it."

"Weirdo," I say. "Is it annoying?"

"Shaving? A bit," he admits. "I'd rather not shave, but it's fine. Work is work and this is just part of the job. I just need to be careful, otherwise I'll get razor burn and that's not fun. I get better tips if I'm smooth, though… So, it's worth it."

I nod my head slowly, soaping and rinsing myself off. I continue watching him, somewhat fascinated with the entire ordeal. Sure, I've seen Becca shave her legs before. I guess this isn't much different than that. Hell, I've even seen her go months without shaving. Not that I really care about that. It's just hair. If I don't shave, I'm definitely not going to ask my girlfriend to shave. Fair is fair.

Soon, he finishes. I step out of the shower, giving him room to rinse off and wash his hair. I dry off lazily before slipping into a pair of boxer shorts. I wipe the condensation off the mirror and stare at myself. There's faint stubble on my chin and above my lip, but I'll take care of that tomorrow.

A couple minutes later, Kenny steps out of the shower. I turn around and watch him dry off. He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively when he catches me staring. "Get a good look?" he asks as he pulls his sweatpants back on.

I roll my eyes at him. Once he's modest, I open the door. When we step out of the bathroom together, Becca is coming up the stairs. I nearly have an aneurism. She gives us both an odd look and asks, "Did you guys just shower together or something?"

"Yeah," I admit, remaining calm. "We're low on hot water."

"I did a load of laundry and Craig likes taking hour long showers," Kenny adds unceremoniously. "I gotta work tonight, so I needed to wash up and shave."

Becca nods her head slowly, smiling slightly. "You guys are funny." Without another word she walks into my bedroom. I part ways with Kenny and follow after her. "So…" she starts, making herself comfortable on my bed, "you had a shower with Kenny?"

"Yeah," I say.

"Was it weird?" she asks, clearly humoured.

"Not particularly," I admit. "I washed my hair, he shaved his legs. That was that."

"Well, that's good. I'm glad you have a friend like him. You seem pretty comfortable around each other."

I nod my head. "We are."

"Do you talk to him a lot?" she asks. "Do you talk to him more than you talk to me?"

"Shit, I don't fucking know…" I tell her, but that's a lie. I do talk to Kenny more than I talk to Becca.

She frowns. She probably knows that I'm lying. I can tell by what comes next: "How comfortable are you around me, Craig?"

I move to my closet and pull out a clean shirt – long sleeved and navy blue. I put it on and then reach for a pair of plaid, red pajama pants, pulling them over my shorts. "I'm comfortable," I tell her once I'm dressed. I turn around and add, "You're my girlfriend."

"Yeah, but… sometimes you just act so reserved," she murmurs.

"Is this because I won't let you fuck me up the ass?" I ask dully.

She lets out an impatient sigh and says, "No, Craig. That's not the issue here. I haven't even brought that up since you were honest with me about why you didn't want to do it. I'm respecting your boundaries."

"Then what the fuck are you saying?" I grit out.

"I'm saying… I feel like we're in a slump," she murmurs. "We've been together for, what, nearly seven years?"

"W-wait," I stutter out, feeling panicked. I feel my eyebrows knit together as I try to comprehend where this might be coming from… but I can't. I don't understand. My heart feels like it jumped up my throat and now it's stuck.

"Craig, I'm –" she starts, but I cut her off.

"Don't!" I shout, holding a shaky hand up. I don't want her to say it's over. I don't think I'll be able to handle hearing her say it.

"Craig, for fuck's sake, I'm not dumping you!" she shouts back, sounding impatient. "So, calm down!"

I stare at her. "Oh," I say weakly.

"I just… I want you to try harder," she tells me gently. "I'm an open book. I mean, I share everything with you – even the boring stuff… but you aren't like that. You don't even tell me the normal stuff unless I ask. You have all these secrets. I've known you my entire life, but I'm still learning things I should have known. I feel like, at times, you're so damn far away. I can't even reach you. We haven't had sex in a while. All we do is get high together. You never want to talk. You were doing so well a while back. You were telling me things – important things… and now you're being so quiet again."

She wants all the parts of me that remain untouched and I don't know how to tell her that if I give her all these parts, then there won't be anything left of me. I need to keep them for myself. I need to keep them safe, because if I keep them safe then I keep myself safe. I want to push away prying hands – the hands of people like my uncle. He reached in and messed me up. I feel like he left me lying there with my guts flopping out all over the damn place.

When you open yourself up to people you're supposed to trust, they can take advantage. Maybe it's inevitable. Maybe that's why I can't trust people completely. He ruined that.

So, for a while I am silent and contemplative. I don't want to disappoint her and I don't want her to leave, but I am too scared to give her what she's asking for.

"I'll try harder," I murmur quietly.

She nods her head. "See? That's all I ask." She pats the place on the bed next to her and I finally move to join her. She wraps her arms around me and keeps me close for several minutes. "How do you feel right now?" she asks.

"Relieved," I respond. "I thought you were gonna dump me."

"I love you," she says simply.

"I love you, too," I echo.


The following morning I wake up lying against Becca. She's still wearing her day clothes – jeans and a blouse. She'll have stubborn creases against her skin when she finally takes them off.

For a few minutes, I don't move. I just stay still. I move my hand and place my palm against her chest, feeling her heart beats.

It scared me when I thought she was going to break up with me. It scared me a lot. I know what she expects from me, but it feels like a fucking impossible task. I'm always stifling myself, even around the people I'm supposed to trust. I guess what it boils down to is that there's no one I trust completely – not Kenny, not Becca, not Clyde.

If I really trusted Kenny, I wouldn't hold back when we fuck. I'd be loud, encouraging, less rigid.

If I really trusted Becca, I would tell her how I feel. I'd be more expressive – in and out of bed. I'd probably spread my fucking ass cheeks and let her stick a plastic dick up my hole.

If I trusted Clyde, I would tell him I'm a cheating sack of shit. I'd ask him for advice. He'd give me some and I'd take it.

If I trusted myself, I wouldn't need the drugs. I'd feel safe in my own mind… but I don't. I wouldn't need to flip flop between Kenny and Becca. I wouldn't cheat on the girl I love with the guy who is in love with me.

Eventually, Becca stirs and sits up.

"Sorry I freaked out at you last night," I murmur.

She turns around and stares down at me where I'm lying. "It's okay, Craig. I feel like I pushed you," she admits. "I mean… Shit, this is going to sound fucking vile, but I know you don't take rejection or perceived rejection particularly well. I've read enough on BPD to know some of the major points. So, I thought I'd try to scare you. I mean, I knew you'd get scared. I was just sick of your lack of expression… but then I felt guilty and I knew what I was trying to do was pretty fucked up."

I frown at her, sitting up. "Why would you do that?"

"Because I'm fucking desperate," she mumbles. "I want you to open up. I want to see all the parts of you. So… I guess I tried to force it."

"And people call me manipulative…" I mutter, scoffing in disbelief.

"I know," she says, letting out a breath. "I'm sorry…"

I shrug my shoulders. "Whatever." I reach behind her and into my nightstand, pulling out my box of drug paraphernalia.

"Is this what we're doing today?" she asks.

"Yes," I decide.


The following few days are work, work, work. I buy dog food after my latest shift and return home, filling Uno's bowl before taking him for a walk.

I feel like shit lately – physically and mentally. It's bordering on suicidal. I haven't felt this down in a while. I forgot how crummy it is. I definitely didn't miss it. I feel really out of it, like I'm just moving mechanically – doing the things I know I'm supposed to do, the things I've done enough times to know back to back. I have some cognitive impairment, but my short term memory is really poor lately. I can hardly remember what I did the day before.

Usually when I feel bad I try to remind myself that soon enough I'll feel good again, but it's not working because this mood is persistent. I feel heavy.

Becca and Kenny keep asking me if I'm all right. I tell them I'm fine for a while, but then I remember I'm supposed to be being honest. So, I tell Becca I want to fucking kill myself and she gets upset. Then I remember why I never tell people shit like this. They make it all about them.

"You'd kill yourself and leave me?" she asks, getting emotional.

"It's not about you," I tell her. "It's about me."

"It's always about you, isn't it?" she murmurs.

"No, but right now it is," I say.

No one fucking gets it.


I haven't been running. I don't have the energy to run. I'm not sure if it's the drugs or the depression. Maybe it's both, neither more overbearing than the other.

Everything feels like a chore – waking up, getting out of bed, showering, eating, going to work, seeing people, talking to people, driving, walking, moving, thinking, breathing. I hate to do it all while trying to keep my emotions in check.

On Friday night, I end up at the bar. I don't want to go home just yet. I know Becca and Kenny will be there waiting for me and I don't want to see either of them.

When I step inside, I see Marjorine and Stan sitting across from each other in a booth in the corner of the room. She's laughing at whatever it is Stan is saying. She looks good. Happy – a lot happier than she looked back in high school. She's wearing jeans and a floral print sweater under her unzipped jacket and her hair is down slightly past her shoulders. She started wearing it longer when she got away from her parents. I hear they only made things worse. Kenny always said that they were abusive as hell. Now she shares a place with Stan.

People in this town tend to keep the same friends for their entire lives. That's how it is in small towns.

When they spot me, they both wave me over… not really sure why. Nonetheless, I make my way across the room and say, "Hey."

"Hey," Marjorine says.

"Hey," Stan repeats. "How are you? Kenny is worried."

"I'm not trying to worry him," I point out.

"I know," Stan says. He pats the seat next to him, telling me to sit down. Once I do, he continues with, "People don't get that it isn't about them."

"Exactly," I respond.

"When I got diagnosed with childhood depression, all my friends kind of ditched me for a while because they were sick of me being negative. They thought I was just trying to bring them down. I wasn't. I was just… Well, I was just fucking depressed. Wendy is the only one who didn't basically tell me to fuck off." He shrugs and laughs.

"Oh," I murmur. "I didn't know any of that."

"I'm lucky," he says with another shrug. "My medication works wonders, so depression doesn't really take over my life the way it used to. Yeah, I still struggle, but I do all right."

"That's good," is all I muster up.

"Anyway," Stan changes the subject, slapping me on the back. "I'll order a round of drinks."

I debate on excusing myself, but I decide against it. He slips past me and I sit quietly with Marjorine. I want to say something to ease the tension, but I don't know what to say. We've never really been friends.

She laughs, probably reading how uneasy I am. "You know, you used to scare me back when we were in school."

"Sorry," I murmur back.

She shakes her head. "You were like… the troublemaker that everyone knew of but no one really knew."

"Honestly, I think I'm still like that," I admit. "I push people away. I keep everyone at a distance, even the people I'm supposed to be closest with."

"Why?" she pries.

"I don't know," I confess. "Trust issues, I guess." I pause, knocking my knuckles against the table before. I feel my eyebrows knit together. "Look…" I breathe shakily, "I, um, I know I used to be a shitty guy… and I'm really sorry if I ever made things hard for you… I think I tried to make things hard for a lot of people because it made me feel better about my own life."

She smiles at me and says, "Don't worry. You never made me feel that way. I think you were one of the few people to leave me alone."

"People can be mean," I tell her.

"Yeah," she agrees.

"So, um..." I continue, trying to keep the conversation rolling. "Are you still seeing that Raisin's girl?"

Marjorine chuckles and says, "Yeah." A second later she holds out her hand, revealing a ring. "We're engaged. She stayed with me through my transition. I really love her."

I smile at that. "Congrats."

Stan returns a minute later with three beers and we all drink.

Around midnight, I return home pleasantly drunk but nowhere near wasted. It takes the edge off when Becca and Kenny start asking me where I've been. I tell them I was at the bar. They ask who I was with. I tell them Stan and Marjorine. They seem satisfied with that much.


Things get worse towards the end of the month when I accidentally overdose. Then again, maybe it wasn't quite an accident.

I wake up in a hospital with an IV. Naloxone, I'm guessing.

Becca is crying. Kenny looked pissed. My parents are here, too. They are disappointed, I can tell.

I turn my head to the side, not wanting to look at any of them. At least there are no cops.

My dad is the first one to speak. "So, you're on drugs now?" he says to me. Then, to my mom, he adds, "We shouldn't have let him move out."

I don't respond. I close my eyes and ignore them all until they go away, but I know they'll be back. I hear their footsteps disappear and when I open my eyes, Becca is the only one left.

Her arms are crossed and she's staring at me with a look of pity mixed with anger. Her eyes are puffy and her nose is red. "What the hell are we doing, Craig?" she asks me wearily. "Where do we even go from here? Do you expect me to just brush this aside and forget about it? Well, I can't do that." A pause. "Why choose death when you can choose life? Isn't it better to feel something than to feel nothing and cease to exist? I don't get it…"

"You can't understand it," I tell her, speaking hoarsely. "You're not like me. Your brain is… normal. Mine isn't. Mine is all… fucked. I mean, come on, you've done enough reading to understand that something like this was inevitable."

She lets out a shuddery breath. "I didn't want to believe you'd ever try something like this… It doesn't suit the kind of person you are on your good days… the days when you're just you and you're not taken over by your negative emotions."

"They're a part of me," I explain. I force myself into a sitting position and add, "All the bad has to come with the good."

"Why did this have to happen?" she whispers. "Were you sad? Did you want to get everyone's attention?"

"I told you I was sad," I say tersely. "You made it all about you. You didn't listen."

She lets out a sharp sigh that sounds like a sob and she runs her hands through her hair. "Try harder," she suggests pleadingly. "Craig… Please, just try…"

My initial reaction is to flat out refuse and start to complain, but I force myself to pause and be reasonable. "Fine," I say. "For you, I'll try. I can't try for me."

"That's fine," she whispers. "Try for me until you can try for yourself."


Ruby and Clyde visit me later in the day, long after Becca is gone. "I just got finished school," she explains. "Clyde drove. Mom and Dad didn't want me to come see you."

I scoff at that. "Naturally."

"I think they thought it'd upset me or whatever…" she says with a shrug. "Or maybe they just didn't want me to see you all drugged up and half-dead. They're not really mad, you know. They're mostly just… sad. Really sad. Mom was crying a lot when the hospital called. They wouldn't even tell me what happened at first. I had to nag a lot. I thought someone might've fucking died or something."

"Not quite," I tell her.

I feel bitter and I can't help but recall what Kenny said to me. He said it wouldn't work. He said if I tried, I'd just wake up in a hospital and feel even shittier. I guess he had a lucky guess... but it's a good thing now because I don't want to die anymore.

"Are you going to try again?" she asks. "To kill yourself, I mean."

"Not anytime soon," I say.

She nods her head, frowning. I can tell that isn't the answer she was looking for, but it's the truth. I don't know what will happen next week, next month, next year. I don't know how I'll feel.

"So," I turn to look at Clyde, "What do you think about all of this?"

"It's sad," he says piteously. "I feel sad for you, Craig…"

"Whatever," I mutter.

Clyde sighs and says, "They'll probably let you leave soon. We'll drive you back to your house since you pretty much kicked everyone else out."

I roll my eyes. "Whatever," I mutter again.


Even later in the evening the doctors let me go, which is good because I need a fix. My stomach is cramping. Clyde and Ruby wait with me and then drive me home. I don't bother inviting them in because I know they're going to follow even if I tell them to go home.

Becca and Kenny are in the kitchen cooking. It's weird to see them so chummy. They don't dislike each other, but they're not that close. I guess they're bonding over the shared experience that is me and my shittiness.

"You should quit that stuff," Ruby says to me, hanging off my arm like she's afraid I'm going to suddenly disappear.

"If it wasn't a drug overdose it'd be something else," I tell her.

After dinner, Becca cracks open a fresh bottle of rum and tosses her head back. She gets mind-numbingly drunk and says I'm stressing her out and causing her grief. Clyde volunteers to take Ruby home, fortunately. I don't want her to have to see me and Becca fight. She'll have to come up with a good lie when Mom and Dad ask her where the hell she's been. She'll probably just say she's been with Karen.

When they're gone, I turn to Becca and ask, "All right, what the hell is this about?"

She starts crying. She's getting worked up. I can tell. "You don't care about me!" she sobs, slurring each word. "All you care about is your stupid drugs and your stupid dog!"

I don't bother reminding her that she likes the drugs, too.

"Then let's quit," I say, though it sounds like an idea that won't ever hold. I just want her to shut up. Nonetheless, she doesn't answer. She just keeps crying. I think she's too drunk to hear a damn word I'm even saying. I just leave her be since there's nothing I can do.

"It'll keep getting worse," Kenny warns me from the doorway. His arms are crossed as he leans in the archway.

I let out a sigh and hold up my hand. "Just shut the fuck up."

Towards the end of the night Becca passes out on the sofa. I leave her there. She'll probably be pretty hung over in the morning.

Kenny stands beside me and we both stare down at her where she's lying. "Sad, isn't it?" he murmurs the question. "Everything about you two is sad."

And I guess he's fucking right.

There's no way I'm quitting now. I was lying when I said I'd try harder. I don't even know how. They're just empty words.