Guess who's finally back.
Damn.
That took waaay too long. I really sincerely apologize, but I needed to take a break for personal reasons. Luckily, things have stabilized for the most part, so I'm able to get back to writing (finally!). I'll give you all a slightly longer chapter than usual for putting up with the wait. Enjoy, my lovlies!~
2-D:
Ouch.
As your eyes slowly drift open, you realize your head is resting against the toilet seat. That's disgusting. What happened? Your legs and body in general is covered in bruises, and everything down there feels wrong. It feels like something tore your soul out, yanked away any strings of consciousness keeping it in your body, and flushed it down the toilet, leaving you here—an empty shell. Lifting your head from the toilet seat, you rub your eyes and cough for a few seconds before assessing the damage. Your neck feels tender as you trace over the skin with the tips of your fingers, letting out a small yelp as they pass over a particularly tender spot. Drawing your fingers, you notice blood.
Fuck.
You sit back on the cold tile floor, and slowly reach down with shaking hands to pull your pants back up. Your hips are badly bruised and everything just hurts. It smells foul in here, and you dry heave into the toilet, gasping for breath. Checking to make sure all of your clothing is in place, you slowly stand up, steadying yourself against the side of the stall, your hand touching a piece of half-dried gum that quickly becomes one with your hand in a sloppy, sickening squish. The smell of Bubblemint and piss fill the air, and you draw your hand away, a string of gum still connecting it to that nasty stall door. Opening the latch, you push it open with your body and walk out, hunching your shoulders in both shame and resignation. Your binding feels loose, but you don't care, shoving your hands into the pockets of your jacket and yanking it down somewhat. Walking over to the sinks, you lean against the edge of one, lifting your head up to take a look into the mirror, which seems to have been spat on. Your eyes are even more sunken than usual, and your lip is swollen around where it is painfully split. The blood has dried into a decent crust, some still oozing out of the center of the cut. You touch it gingerly, wincing as you smear the blood with your finger. Your neck is covered in hickies, one of which appears to be fucking bleeding for fuck's sake. You reach out and turn on the water, feeling it wash over your hands, and splashing it over your face, wiping the blood from your lip carefully. When you finish, you turn off the water, pulling two paper towels from the dispenser, drying off, and tossing then in the bin. Taking one last look at yourself in the mirror, you shake your hair so it falls in front of your eyes and walk out.
The club is still loud as fuck. The strobe lights flash, and you squint your eyes, wanting more than anything to just get the fuck out. Sweaty bodies grind together on the dance floor, and you wonder how long you've been passed out for.
What the fuck even happened?
Looking for the exit in a private, internal frenzy, you finally notice the glaring red sign, walking out the door and into the street. The drugs and adrenaline rush have left you with a pounded headache and you don't even want to think about what had transpired. What time is it, you wonder, desperately searching for any sort of clock. Nothing seems to be open, so you deduce that it must be fairly late at night.
Your mind begins racing, and you're becoming paranoid. There's no one around; it's too quiet. You really want a cigarette.
And you kinda want Muds.
NO.
You shake your head and continue walking, the cold air invading your lungs with every breath. It burns and your chest feels more crushed than normally. You wish you could just ditch the binding, but that's no possible. You look to your right, suddenly noticing you are near a park. There are benches. Really, you're just really tired and want to sleep. It's dark, but the dim street lamps illuminate a small bench where someone appears to be sitting. He looks familiar almost. Almost too much.
Almost like.
Russell.
You squint, taking a few steps closer to him. It is Russell. You cannot explain the relief and joy you suddenly feel, but you are nervous and scared at the same time. Because you look like a train wreck and no amount of dim lighting will hide that. You decide to approach the bench from the opposite side, and you sit down on the chipped, white slats slowly, crossing your arms across your chest. You begin to trace circles in the dirt with your shoe before asking lowly, "got a smoke at all?"
At first, he doesn't recognize you but nods, grunting something, and pulls one out of his pack quite amiably, handing it to you. That's when his eyebrows furrow.
"D? That you?" His tone is concerned.
You avoid looking at him, as this will only draw attention to how beat up your face looks. "Yea…." You manage softly. But he can tell something's up. He frowns, turning his attention toward you completely. He clearly notices your less-than-idea state.
"Dude, what's happened to you?"
You shift nervously, snatching the cigarette from him, a little annoyed at the question. And then you realize you don't actually have a lighter. This night—or however long it's been—has fucked you over in more ways than one. You sigh, turning toward him, still not looking up to meet his eyes.
"I don't even know," you manage meekly, placing the cigarette between your lips. "Got a light?" You kind of mumble out of one side of your mouth. You're guessing he's noticed your busted lip. You can just feel his eyes studying you. Sighing, you look up at him slowly.
"Jesus, 'D!" He almost shouts, and you cover your ears instinctively.
"Sorry," he says, softer this time, carefully studying your face more. "You don't look so good, man. Who did this to you?" He hands you the lighter.
You take the lighter, flicking the tiny wheels nervously lighting the cigarette and inhaling deeply, savoring the smoke for a few seconds before exhaling an upward stream of smoke into the cold, night air. It's taking a toll on your lungs, however, and you cough violently for what seems like a minute, before turning back to Russell.
"Um, I'll be ok, I just need to rest and things…" your voice trails off. You really don't want to go back there. Even mentally. Then again, you aren't entirely sure of what even happened. Which is both frightening and embarrassing simultaneously. You bring the cigarette back up to your cracked, chapped, and bleeding lips, sucking its chemical-laced smoke into your lungs before tilting your head back to exhale a steady stream of smoke. Russell is still studying your face. It is making you uncomfortable.
"Russell! 'D!" Someone is yelling in the distance.
Slowly, you turn your head, the soreness of your abused neck radiating throughout your entire body.
Hope you enjoyed! Please review, as always, and I promise to keep writing. Next chapter shall be happier~ ^-^