A/N: I'm being very indecisive today. I want to end this story, for the simple fact I'm stuck on words, and then I want to continue because if I end it- it'll be well, very unfinished. Literally. So I think I'll keep going, at least until someone finds out-until Alex learns to let people in, however long that may take, and then writer a sequel about what happens afterward. Should I? I need your support to help me with this decision! Should I write a sequel or no? Also, I'll start with the shout-out thing in the sequel, if I write it- since I'm too far in now to do them. That, and I never have enough time. "/

Eight.



'There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.'-Maya Angelou.

I woke up hours later, in the same position, with my stomach in my throat and my head pounding so hard I thought It'd explode. Groaning quietly from the wave of pain that shot through my spine, I manage to push myself up onto my feet, and shuffle my way to my bedroom. Note to whoever, sleeping on a kitchen floor is not comfortable. Always make an attempt to get to a bed or else you'll wake up feeling like a sumo wrestler is sitting on you.

I didn't bother to grab the purse from the kitchen, it's not like I need anything out of it. My eyes drift shut again though and I'm pounded by an unexpected wave of sleep, drawing me back in close to the border. Letting my body fall back, I rest my head on the pillow and almost immediately my eyes slam shut and I'm off into that silence I'm still longing for.

--

I'm brought out of that black abyss by the beating on my door. Groaning inwardly, I push myself to my feet once more and trudge to answer it. I'm in no fucking mood to deal with anyone right now, not after this morning. Opening the door, I lean against it, still half asleep. The moment I spot Casey though, my eyes open completely, large and wide, and I feel a thrust of fear scorch through my veins.

"Casey, what are you doing here?" I ask, the first sentence I've managed to string out without stuttering.

She eyes me a moment, then pushes herself in my apartment. "We need to talk. Donnelley sent me here."

I curse under my breath, tucking a strand of blond hair behind my ear as she sets her purse on the kitchen table and then looks around at the things scattered and strewn in my apartment. She scrunches up her face, and throws a worried glance in my direction.

"She told me about the other night, when she came to visit. I know I have no right to butt in-" I cut her off immediately, my voice sharp and my eyes narrowed, like always. The anger has set back into my chest and I clutch my fists together to keep from ripping at my hair...or her.

"You're right." I hiss. "You don't." She looks at me for a minute, slightly taken back, and then speaks up again.

"I'm worried, so is she-and frankly I can see why." She adds, a slight edge to her own voice. I scoff in anger.

"Oh really? You can, can you?" I snap, quickly. She looks at me, eyes narrowed in rage. I'm waiting for her to go off, I want to set her off. Why, I'm unsure, but I just feel the need, the urge to push her buttons like she and everyone else had been doing to me!

Before she can continue, I feel the words slip past my mouth before I can stop them.

"Last time I checked, you had better, more important things to worry about then me." I snapped, sharply. "I'm unimportant in your world, just a useless, figment of your imagination. I don't matter, so why the fuck are you here questioning me? And if fucking Donnelley was so god damn worried she should talk to me herself! Not send you of all people, here, to fucking try and get me to 'share' my feelings and all of that bullshit."

As I finished, I let out a satisfied breath, throwing a smirk her way before I stomped towards my bedroom.

"You know your way out." I added, before slamming the door behind me and locking it. I was not going to let her tell me what I needed to do. Her! Of all the god damn people in the world, she comes here. I clutch my fists again tightly. I'm so disgusted, so angry, so hateful, I could scream. In fact, I do. Swallowing the lump in my throat, and no longer giving three fucks if she's out there anymore, I let out the loudest scream I ever have before in my life. It's gut wrenching and it almost hurts as I collapse to my knees, pounding the carpet, ripping it in pure hatred.

I want to fucking die.

--

I wake up the next morning with smeared makeup, and my throat feeling like someone poured kerosene down it. Pushing myself up off the semi-ruined carpet, or at least the part I had dug up the night before, I head toward my bathroom to complete my ritual. I get dressed, brush my teeth and hair, wash my face, and head out to my kitchen to shove my face. Once I've finished, I head back into the bathroom to throw it all back up, slit my body once more, and then brush my teeth again before I collapse back in my bed.

I have no energy. My throat burns and my stomach is still turning. I threw up blood for the fifth time, which I don't think is good at all. However, I don't plan on getting it checked for the mere point of not caring. I don't care about it, or what happens to me, or anyone else anymore.

I just care about this, my disease, the high I feel. Nothing else matters anymore. Nothing else is important.

Nothing but this, and I plan on sticking it out. No matter where it takes me, or where it doesn't.