Murdoc was awakened the next morning by sounds of movement. Remembering the previous night through the fog of his hangover, he fought off the urge to throw an empty bottle at the source of the unwelcome noise. He opened an eye to look at the glaring red numbers on the clock beside his bed. 6:18 am. He turned his head and saw Cameron moving about the Winnebago, half dressed, looking for a boot. "Leaving so soon?" He asked sluggishly, his voice still managing to startle her out of her search. She jumped slightly and turned around, an unreadable expression on her haggard face.

"Yup, sorry to rob you of the satisfaction of throwing me out." She said as she finished getting dressed. Her voice held subtle yet surprising sarcasm and animosity. Murdoc opened his other eye and looked curiously at her. He didn't remember doing anything to piss her off. He was pretty sure he hadn't blown his load in her eye, or put his cock in her arse by mistake.

"Everything alright?" He asked, his headache preventing him from sounding like he meant it. Cameron stooped down to pick up her missing boot from behind a pile of junk and looked over at him.

"Yeah, sorry. Comedown's a bitch." She muttered. Murdoc nodded. "Well," Cameron said with a hint of bitterness, "Bye." The door slammed behind her.

What a strange doll, thought Murdoc. He was accustomed to such bitterness the morning after a one night stand but usually it came after he'd told the bird to get out. In any case, it was nice that she'd saved him the trouble. He looked to the door. She was really something. Somehow, she didn't seem as disposable as most of the girls he brought home to warm his bed. She seemed worth a second shag, actually. She did have a magical mouth, and she didn't grovel at his feet. Murdoc liked that. He shook his head, shutting his eyes. No use thinking about it now, though. He rested his head back on his pillow, determined to fall back to sleep for at least another six or seven hours but it was made difficult by the unpleasant and unfamiliar feeling of dissatisfaction that he felt growing in the pit of his stomach.

Murdoc awoke many hours later after a fitful and restless sleep. He groaned, looking over at the clock beside his bed. It was now about 4 in the afternoon. He squeezed his eyes shut again, willing the sleep to come back. Nothing. He growled, throwing the covers off his still naked body and stepping out of bed. Scratching his ass with one hand and picking up a dirty pair of pants with the other, he tried to remember what had happened the previous night. He knew he'd brought home a girl, Cameron. A naughty smile spread across his lips as the memories came flooding back to him. Moaning, clawing, desperate, hungry nips and aggressive thrusts. And then her sudden brush-off. He frowned. No one rejects Murdoc Niccals. He pulled his pants on and yawned, walking out the door of his Winnebago to see if he could find some liquid breakfast in the kitchen. He made his way across the car park to the lift, impatiently pushing the button several times when he got in. His head was pounding, and he needed something to drink before his hangover kicked in full force.

The others had already eaten lunch, so Murdoc found himself alone in the kitchen, surveying the cupboard with squinted eyes, looking for a bottle of booze. Finding nothing, he angrily began grabbing the food items from the shelves and throwing them to ground. "Come on, dammit!" He muttered, tossing a can of baked beans over his shoulder. "There must be something to drink in here…" He was so engrossed in his search that he didn't hear 2D enter the kitchen, coming to investigate the source the racket. He feared it was going to give him a migraine if it didn't stop soon.

"Ey Mudz!" Murdoc heard 2D call, irritatingly cheerfully from behind him. The bassist's face contorted with rage as he spun around, arm poised, ready to make contact with 2D's jaw.

"Not so loud, you twat! I've got a fuckin' headache." He growled, slowly lowering his arm. 2D took a cautious step back, hoping to avoid a beating.

"Sorry, Murdoc." He said softly. "You slept in pretty late, did you 'ave a nice night?" Murdoc slightly flinched at the question.

"Yeah." He said simply. He was still angry with Cameron for running out on him before he had the chance to… a chance to what? Throw her out? She was right, he did get some crooked satisfaction from kicking girls out after having sex with them. It was a power trip. And it aggravated him even more that she could leave so emotionally unaffected. He was used to having a much stronger effect on the women he brought home. It pissed him off.

His grasping hand finally closed on the neck of a bottle deep within the cabinet. Good. He wanted to get out of the kitchen before 2D noticed anything different in the way he was acting. When it came to emotions, the Dullard was unexpectedly perceptive. Especially for someone who had endured multiple head injuries and spent the majority of his time doped up on painkillers. Murdoc stalked past 2D, roughly shoving him out of his way and uncorking the bottle which he noticed, with some dismay, was rum. When he was safely out of the kitchen, a frown clouded his face, as he remembered the taste of rum on Cameron's tongue the night before. He pushed the memory out of his head and chugged.

Why was he still thinking about this? Some pathetic psychological trauma from his childhood about being rejected by my father, he supposed, disgusted with his own weak humanity. Then again, he comforted himself, it could have just been that she was a good fuck, plain and simple. Yeah, that was probably it. Regardless of the reason behind the situation, after a long day of stewing about it in his Winnebago, Murdoc found himself driving in the direction of the pub from the night before.

After parking, he walked towards the doors. As he neared them, his pace slowed. What exactly was he doing here? What was he hoping to accomplish? Ideally, he would come in to find Cameron sitting in the corner. She would walk over to him, try to seduce him. Beg him to sleep with her. Then what would he do? He could take her home to shag and kick her out properly in the morning like he should have been able to do in the first place. Order would then be restored. Or, he could just turn her down right then and there in the bar. That would feel good. Murdoc smirked and entered the pub.

However, there was one thing he hadn't taken into account. After scanning the dim room for quite some time, he had to accept that Cameron was not there. He grumbled, walking over to the bar and ordering a whiskey. Anything but rum. As soon as the glass was placed in front of him he put it to his thin lips, tilting his head back and downing it in a effortless motion. He ordered another, and another, and another. Drunken anger began hitting him in waves and soon, he noticed, the alcohol began to taste like blood. He touched his mouth, realizing he'd been biting his lip with such force that the skin had broken and the salty, red liquid was seeping into his mouth. After his fifth glass, he could barely stand. He'd been sitting there for at least two hours at that point and soon he grew tired of fending off the desperate fangirls and autograph hounds. He threw a few crumpled bills on the table and left, stumbling back into the biting night air.

Murdoc was seeing doubles of the neon fluorescent signs of the pubs and restaurants that lined the street and swayed in front of him. He blinked a few times, trying unsuccessfully to make his eyes focus. He'd left the Geep parked about a block down the street. Now, Murdoc wasn't much for safety and often drove himself home drunk, but he wasn't much for death either. He knew that he'd drunk more than usual that night, not to mention what he'd drunk back at Kong, and if he tried to drive in his current state there was no way he'd make it back home. He had to find somewhere to sober up. Looking to his left, he saw a small brightly lit diner. It'll have to do, he thought as he staggered in.

Squinting his eyes from the light inside, Murdoc made his way to a booth far in the back of the relatively empty restaurant. There were only a few other people in it: a sad looking old man with a cup of coffee and a newspaper, a frazzled middle aged woman eating a hamburger and a teenage couple kissing in a corner. He sat down with a heavy thud and flicked open a menu, his eyes skimming over the choices. It didn't take long for his churning stomach to reject the idea of food. He tossed the menu to the side and rested his dizzy head on the table. Soon he heard the clicking of shoes on the grimy white tile floors that signalled the arrival of the waitress. The footsteps abruptly stopped and he lifted his head, looking up into Cameron's surprised eyes. For a moment, neither of them said anything. They just looked at each other, neither knowing what to say

Cameron was the first to break the growingly uncomfortable silence, clearing her throat. "Uh, hey Murdoc." She said simply. Her voice held neither hostility nor kindness. If anything, she sounded somewhat amused at the awkward situation she found herself in.

Murdoc quickly tried to regain his composure and said as suavely as he could, "Ello, Luv." Cameron let a thin smile form on her lips, seeing through his false demeanour and noticing how inebriated he was. "I didn't really think I'd see you again." She said. "I guess I was wrong."

"I ain't fuckin' following you around if that's what your implying." Murdoc frowned.

"No, not at all." She answered truthfully. "Something to eat, then?" She asked, eyebrows raised and pen poised above her yellow notepad.

"No, no." He muttered distractedly. Cameron sighed. "Then what are you doing here?" Without warning, the nausea in Murdoc's stomach had suddenly worsened, and he quickly stood up. "'Scuse me a minute, Luv." He moaned, heading for the bathroom.

The whiskey spewed from his mouth the moment he hung his head over the toilet bowl. When there was nothing left for his body to expel, he knelt for another minute, dry heaving, black hair falling into his eyes. He clutched his stomach. The sickness wasn't just from the alcohol. He was sickened with himself for the ridiculous way that he let Cameron get to him. He stuck two fingers deep down his throat, trying to throw up again. He wanted to punish himself for how he felt. He wanted to purge himself of the pathetic feelings she evoked in him. He heard a knock on the door. He wiped his mouth and leaned over to open it. Cameron stood there with a semi-concerned look on her face. "You alright?" She asked.

"Fucking ace." He answered sarcastically. She helped him up and walked him back to the table, hesitantly sitting in the booth across from him. He cleared his throat, somewhat embarrassed that she had seen the great Murdoc Niccals vomiting like a high school girl who couldn't hold her liquor.

"So you work here?" He asked.

"Yup." She replied shortly, tucking a strand of her frizzy mane behind an ear. Murdoc snickered, pleased that the girl who had apparently thought she was too good for him worked as a server in a run down diner. Cameron heard his arrogant laughter and frowned, adding with some resentment, "We can't all be big shot rock stars who get paid to do what they love and have everything fed to them with a silver spoon." Murdoc's body stiffened. Wait a sodding minute, who the hell did she think she was? His face hardened, and he said, "Hold it right there, Luv. You don't know the first thing about my life."

Cameron rolled her hazel eyes. She knew she had a habit of speaking without thinking, but she also knew that she was right. "Oh come on. Don't give me that, 'Let's all take a moment to pity the tough and trying lives of the more fortunate' bullshit." Murdoc was outraged. What was this bitch's problem?

"Watch yourself, woman." He growled, shooting her a chilling glare. She returned his look and stood up from her seat. She knew she was picking a fight. "I was right about you. I'm glad I didn't stick around this morning. You're just a sullen, insufferable old wanker."

Murdoc stood as well, giving her a withering glare and saying loudly, "You didn't seem to think so when you were fucking me!" Some of the customers and employees in the diner turned to gape at the two.

Cameron scoffed. "What is that, some low attempt to embarrass me? Like I could give a shit! Say it as loud as you fucking want. Go write me a song about it. I literally couldn't care less." She stormed away from the table in exasperation and into a door labelled "Kitchen," letting it slam heavily behind her. Murdoc glanced around the room at his open-mouthed audience.

"THE FUCK ARE YOU ALL LOOKING AT?" He bellowed, furiously stomping out the door.

/

Cameron slumped down against the wall in the empty kitchen, sitting on the filthy floor. She rested her elbows on her knees, arms extended, allowing her head to dangle between her legs. She focused all of her attention on the once white tiles of the floor. They were stained a dull and dirty grey, like week old snow. She felt sick. For some reason, she thought of the time when she was seven and she shit her pants in church. She'd ran. Out the doors, into the streets, all the way home. She hid in her room. Her parents and brother had not returned until after the service ended. When they did get home, her mother admonished her for running off. She'd told Cameron that she was a stupid girl. Frequent emotional abuse had caused Cameron to agree at the time, but she still didn't appreciate her mother telling her so.

Cameron liked to run. When she was young, she ran on grass, on pavement, on the sand at the beach. She liked to focus on a point in front of her. A tree, or a house, or a rock. It made her feel good to close the distance between herself and the chosen object. Now, when Cameron ran, she always focused on an object behind her and smiled as it got smaller and smaller before eventually fading out of sight. Whenever something scared her or made her feel things that she didn't want to feel, she ran. Recently, she'd taught her self to run before the things had a chance to make her feel anything she didn't want to. She'd done this once already this morning, and again a few minutes ago.

A sound at the door startled her from her thoughts. She sluggishly raised her head, suddenly feeling exhausted. Phil, the man who cooked most of the food for the diner, as well as owned it, was standing in the doorway. "Cam, time to close up. Go clear the tables." He was a strange looking man. Short and slight with a moustache that made him look like Ron Jeremy in the 80s. She remembered what her Grandpa had told her once, never to trust a skinny cook. Cameron nodded, not bothering to remind him that she didn't like being called Cam, because it rhymed with Spam, and it made her think of pale pink, rubbery lunchmeat, something that she did not like to be associated with. She struggled up from the ground and walked through the door of the kitchen, back into the dinning area. She was relieved to see that Murdoc was gone. She gathered the smeared plates and crumpled napkins from the tables and brought them back into the kitchen. Then she wiped down the tables and scraped the gum from underneath them. She grabbed her oversized green jacket from the storeroom where she'd left it at the beginning of her shift and walked to the exit.

"Night, Phil." Cameron called as she walked out the door of the diner, not waiting for his response and hoping to escape before he thought of anything else for her to do. She zipped up the cloth jacket and pulled her long hair out of the neck of it. She walked down the street in the direction of her apartment, sore feet dragging on the ground. She happened to glance down an alley to her right, and saw a black figure huddled there. Taking a closer look, she noticed that it was Murdoc, passed out against the brick wall.

She shook her head and kept walking. She managed to walk almost half a block before she let out a frustrated groan and muttered. "Godammit," the guilt causing her to turn around and walk back the way she came. When she reached Murdoc, she firmly slapped his cheeks, trying to revive him to no avail. "Mrhurgsmphmls," He mumbled incoherently, before slipping back into unconsciousness. Cameron reached into his pocket, relieved to find a cellphone in it. She opened his contacts. She scrolled through the countless number of girl's names (most likely prostitutes), liquor stores and bars until she finally found something helpful. She clicked on Russel's name, recognizing it as one of his bandmates and sent a text: Passed out. Please pick me up. In an alley on Croxwell Street across from The Blue Cap Pub. Deciding that she'd been helpful enough to quiet her conscience and sleep easy that night, Cameron put the phone back into his pocket and resumed her long walk home.

Cameron lived in a dilapidated one room apartment. The walls were a soiled yellow colour and the floor was made of scuffed up, unfinished, soggy wooden planks. She had a bare mattress in the corner, a tiny kitchenette against one wall and an ancient brown and green striped couch against the other. There was a small balcony near her bed facing west and a door that led to a minuscule, cramped bathroom on the same wall as the couch. Home sweet home, thought Cameron as she threw her jacket down on the floor beside her "bed" and crawled onto the lumpy mattress. When she moved out of her house at the age of 16, she could hardly believe her luck when she found such an affordable apartment. Originally, she had intended it to be a temporary arrangement. Just like dropping out of school and her job as a waitress. But now, almost two years later, she feared that this was becoming her life.

She had left home rather suddenly, and she didn't have the means to be picky. The apartment's shabbiness was a small price to pay for her freedom. She'd left school so that she could make enough money to support herself.

She thought of her parents house. It was large and lavishly decorated, with doilies and fresh flowers on the rich mahogany tables and impressionist artwork lining the walls. There was a crocheted wall hanging in the dining room with The Ten Commandments stitched onto it. Her parents would often wordlessly point at it when she did something they thought was wrong, which was often. The house was formal and suffocating. Like a museum, Cameron had often felt like she couldn't touch anything. She frequently felt the need to ask permission before speaking, laughing, breathing. She thought of the night that she left. The anger, the shouting, the harsh words, the blows. The violence, the hurt, the tears and screaming. She hadn't talked to them since. Cameron absently traced the faint scars on her upper arms. "Spare the rod and spoil the child." She heard her father saying in his detached and cold voice. She flinched at the recollection, pulling her coat from the floor and over her frail body. She took a few pills from the pocket, crushed them and sniffed them up her right nostril. Food was expensive. So were the drugs, but at least they suppressed her appetite. And helped her forget.

Within a few minutes, a familiar warm numbness spread throughout her body. She lay for what felt like a few minutes (but was really a few hours) and eventually fell asleep. She dreamt that she was running down a busy street. She instinctively turned to look behind her at a parked car, determined to make it disappear with her speed. She sprinted away from it as fast as she could, but it stayed the same size. She looked down at her feet, the asphalt under them slowly dissolving into the shiny silver rungs of a hamster wheel. Cameron was static. She couldn't move. She woke up in a cold sweat, crying, like she did many nights.