Day six in the apartment: we still can't afford a god damn couch. Our money has gone toward food, rent and a TV. We each have forty dollars in each of our pockets: twenty for food and twenty for gas. Luckily, we get paid this week, so we won't be as desperate for money, and maybe we'll have a couch by the end of the month.

Sleeping on the floor kinda sucks. A lot. When you use your dirty ass sleeping bag that you've had since you were twelve as a mattress, only a couple blankets and a single pillow, you probably won't get the best night's sleep. My shoulder blades dig into the wooden floors of the living room; I've woken up with a bruised back every time I've slept on the floor because I end up rolling off the fucking sleeping bag. Granted, I've only slept on the floor twice now, but regardless, I don't think it's going to get any easier.

I've been in a constant state of trying to fall asleep, going on my phone to pass time until I'm tired and repeating the process. Occasionally I actually get some sleep, but I jolt up every time I roll over. This is a horrid existence. Maybe if I just snuck in to the other side of the bed and woke up before he did I could get a good night's sleep without him noticing I was even there. I took one of the blankets and the pillow and crept down the small hallway. I slowly turned the doorknob and opened the door even slower. I was on my toes, elongating my stride, being so careful to not make a sound. Craig was on the side of the bed closest to the door. Dammit. I had to creep even more. Just fucking dandy. I felt like I was taking hours to get to the other side of the room. Long, slow strides, only on my toes, being careful not to drop my phone, or anything else for that matter. When I finally reached the side of the bed, I leaned down to slowly position myself onto it when I heard "Kenny, what the hell are you doing?"

"Shit," I stopped frozen in my tracks.

"I've been awake this whole time," He rolled over to face me, "What the hell are you doing?"

"Craig, I don't wanna sleep on the god damn floor. It hurts like hell. You won't even know I'm here."

He sighed as he rolled over to face the ceiling, "Fine, sure."

"Thanks, man," I said as I got in.

I rolled over so I'd face the wall opposite of him, closed my eyes and tried to sleep. However, after a couple minutes, Craig started to talk to me again. "Kenny?"

"Yeah?"

"The other day- when I almost drank myself sick—why did you stop me?"

I rolled to face him. He was still looking at the ceiling. "Because I didn't want you to drink yourself to death."

"You know I drink to feel better—"

"No, I didn't," I stopped him, "I knew you smoked for that shit; I had no idea about the drinking."

He was silent. He exhaled before saying "I don't understand why you deal with my bullshit. You really don't have to."

"I care about you, man. I get it: self-medication may feel like the only answer, but it really isn't. Trust me: it hurts others more than you think."

Craig turned his head to look at me. He had this confused look on his face. "Since when did you drink?"

"I don't."

I've slit my wrists. I've seen what too much alcohol can do to people. The McCormick household is a constant battle of drunken father, drunken mother and drunken eldest child. I only touch the shit for 'social occasions'. Bleeding away the pain seemed like a better option than a potential liver failure. My triceps were the canvas, anything sharp (knives, razors, scissors, even god damn pencils) was my brush, my blood was the paint, and I could make a studio anywhere. The clean up was easiest in the bathroom, but I felt more at ease in my room.

I remember once in the middle of class I just felt like a waste of human life and I hid the mechanical pencil's powerful strokes under my desk as I kept a straight face during a lecture on the mechanics of light.

Once, I stared dead ahead as Mom, Dad and Kevin were consumed by liquor at the dinner table. Karen's knife dug into her turkey as she tried to drown them out, but she caught a glance of me in a practically catatonic state. I could've sworn she didn't notice that my knife was digging into my arm. I eventually felt the blood drip more and more, so I shoved my jacket's sleeves back down, stuffed the knife in my pocket, and excused myself from the meal. Once the door to my room was shut, the knife came back out. I sat on the edge of the bed, rolled my sleeves up, and I guided the blade across my already stained wrists. There was no emotion on my face, but I felt like I was draining an already empty glass with every slice.

And suddenly, the door creeped open. The knife fell from my wrist, but not out of my hand. It was Karen. "Kenny?"

As she walked toward me, her eyes grew wider and her jaw slowly dropped and her hand crept to cover her mouth. I was too empty to see what I was really doing to her. "Kenny… drop the knife."

I didn't listen. I stared at her, completely in a trance. "Kenny, please listen to me."

I still didn't listen. And I didn't move. I just stared. "God dammit Kenny, please listen to me!"

She choked out all her words. She fell to the floor. She clutched on my knee for some kind of support. "You're the only god damn person who cares about me in this house; the only person with sanity—the only one keeping me alive—and now you're trying to fucking kill yourself? Answer me!"

But I couldn't. I wasn't responding to her crying and screaming on the outside, but inside, I was bawling with her, I was just too dead to let it show. "Kenny," Karen finally said in between sobs, "I need you. Please…"

She fell from her knees and on to the floor, curled into a ball, her face in her hands and her hands in her knees. There were no words, no screams, just the tears of my baby sister who thought she was fighting a losing battle. It caused me to stop staring into nothing, and to look at her. I held everything in as much as I could, but it was no use. It broke me. I had fought to keep her safe for so many years, and when it came to be her turn to fight for me, she didn't think she could win. The knife fell from my hand and the clanging hid the sound of my initial outburst. I saw the blood on my wrists drip to the floor as tears rolled down my face. The two youngest McCormicks sat broken together, praying to never fall apart again.

I imagined what would happen if it were Ruby walking in on Craig binging on booze. The reactions would probably be the same. That's what I tried to explain to him. I can only hope it got through his head.

A/N So this is the last part I made for my Creative Writing final. (Yes, I submitted SP fanfiction for a grade come at me) Tell me if you want more stories from the McTucker apartment!