A narc, she said. It's such an ugly word. I stare at my despondent reflection on my bedroom's neon vanity while remembering Sloane's cruel words. They'd stabbed my heart like a knife. I didn't like being her enemy, but now it's gotten worse. It's been a few weeks since we broke apart. Now she's completely indifferent towards me. I might as well be a ghost with the way she glides right past me in the halls at school.

I sigh deeply and clutch my arms over my chest. Is that really who I am? A liar? A traitor? A narc? I just wanted our final year of high school to go nicely. Was that too much to ask for? Sure, the man of my dreams is finally my boyfriend.

Yet now, I've lost one of my dearest friends. I grip my skin tightly, feeling it pinch under my nails. Maybe Sloane's right. I'm a horrible, selfish person.

Maybe my mother's right. I'm not smart enough, and I'm just not good enough for anything. I didn't know how to keep Sloane around, and I didn't know how to keep my mouth shut.

I still remember the evening of my first interview. My mother had no words of wisdom to offer, unless those words of wisdom only manifested themselves in doubts. When I turned to her for advice, she'd quickly lose her temper with me and shine a spotlight on every potential problem. How would I get to work on time? How would I get a ride? How would I deal with so much responsibility? I didn't understand her doubts, because at first she'd been so eager to push me to start searching for a job. While my interview date loomed ahead, she busied herself building a wall of fear and apprehension in front of me.

"You won't survive a day in that job. You know nothing. Why are you asking me for advice if you won't even take it?" Her biting words echoed in my ear.

I never asked for her control. All I wanted was advice, some genuine suggestions. Now, when I close my eyes, all I hear are her doubts: a soundtrack of five million reasons why I'm not good enough and how I will mess up.

After my interview, she said nothing. I thought, maybe she could finally be proud of me. Someone saw potential in me and hired me for the job. That has to count as an accomplishment, right?

"What do you want me to say?" My mother had shrugged carelessly. "That's only half the work done. We'll see if you even make it through the next week."

It's just... not enough. I don't know when I'll ever be enough. Nothing I do is worthwhile. Nothing I do is important. I'm... just not that important.

My heart beats fast and I clutch my chest. Why is it that the air I breath is no longer good enough for me? Maybe I'm not deserving of it.

I pick up a small cardboard box and whirl around quickly, exit my bedroom, and make my way quietly to the bathroom. It's late at night— about ten o'clock— so I know my mother is deep asleep. I shut the door and try catch my breath. I won't cry. I won't!

Sloane, why did you make me hate myself? Mother, why did you make me hate myself?

I struggle to open the box while sniffing my nose. These are the roses Sloane brought me from her garden as a gift for "being a good friend" and keeping her secret.

I open a cabinet and dig through a bunch of my mother's pill bottles until I find her secret lighter. Closing the cabinet quietly with my hip, I light a small candle on the counter. I reach over to the bath and start running hot water.

While the tub is fills up, I take out a rose from the box and slowly tear off a petal one by one. I let them fall gracefully onto the water in front of me. Will this year end badly? I rip off a petal in hopes of an answer and murmur "it won't"... I drop another petal. It will. It won't. It will. It won't. This goes on and on until I'm left with one final petal on this rose that my corrupted brain has decided holds my destiny. It will.

I reach for another rose hurriedly and flinch when I feel something sharp prick my finger. A thin trail of blood trickles down and around my finger where I accidentally touched a thorn. I'm unbothered. The emotional pain people have caused me and the impossible situations I've placed myself in are unmatched by the mere prick of a rose.

I hold up the lighter and the rose over the sink and set it aflame. I don't even care anymore, I don't see the point. Why do they always make me feel like shit? Sloane was the one who messed up, not me. I feel tears well up behind my eyes. Somehow, I find it hard to believe myself. I undress and sit in the bath when it's finally full.

I messed up. I'm the mess. I'm always the mess. As long as I'm around, everything will go wrong. If I had been out of the picture, Joel and Sloane could have been saved so much pain. Joel would have found out that Holly wasn't into him without knowing about her and Sloane. If I didn't exist, then maybe my mother would have the perfect daughter she'd always wanted.

I bet Darren isn't even really in love with me. I mean, just look at me. There's way more beautiful girls out there who are willing to go farther with him. I'm no one. What if I'm just a challenge to him? What if none of this is real? He knows how charming he is. What if he's just using me for fun?

I couldn't be a good friend, I couldn't be a good girlfriend, and I couldn't be a good daughter. All this drama, and I've started to forget how to be a good student. I'd already forgotten about my college applications which are due in less than a month. I'm suffocating under all these expectations. I can't sleep. It's hard just to fucking breath. There's too much happening, and I don't know if I can keep up. I don't know if I can survive all this. Everything feels like a burden on my back. My shoulders and neck literally hurt, as if I'm carrying some invisible weight on my shoulders.

A hot tear rolls down my cheek when I finally realize: there's no one here to help me. I'm all alone. Only Sloane knew what went on inside my head. Only she knew the darkest corners of my mind. Now, she wants absolutely nothing to do with me. I've become nothing to her in the blink of an eye.

What do I do? What can I do? I choke back my desperate sobs and grip my knees in this empty candlelit darkness. Please.. can anyone hear me? Am I truly as alone as I feel?

These spinning thoughts in my head only make my desperation worse. I don't know who's in the right or who's in the wrong anymore. Am I surrounded by bad people? Or is the toxicity stemming from me? What if, in reality, I'm the one causing so much pain and grief? Or what if by wallowing in this deep sea of self-pity I'm blinding myself to the truth— everyone is hurting me and I'm patiently allowing them to?

Am I the villain or the victim? God, I don't know. I am so lost, I'm so utterly hopeless. I hate this confusion. I don't know who to trust, because I no longer know if I can even trust myself.

***

Thump! Thump!

I struggle to lift my heavy eyelids when I hear the familiar sound of rocks being thrown against my bedroom window at midnight. Suddenly, my heart beats fast at the hope of seeing someone from the past. I force myself out of bed and slide the curtain.

It's not Sloane. The thumping stops. There's a figure standing out on the lawn with their hands on their sides. Their silhouette is briefly lit by a flickering lamppost. I search for anything to recognize them by. There is no limo, not a single car parked in sight other than the neighbors' which are in their respective driveways.

The flickering light and my slow reactions make me wonder if I'm trapped in a dream. At least nothing truly bad can happen to me in a dream. I open the window and they wave.

As if on cue, I hold up a finger and walk to my closet to put on my trusty late night fit. I rub red lipstick over my lips, add a bit of mascara, and add a plum bow to my hair, which is styled loosely.

After I make it down to the lawn, I walk up the figure bravely. The light flickers and this time I can see the face of a friend. It's Joel Larson.

"Hey," I say.

"Hey." After a slight pause, he continues awkwardly, "I thought we both could use a night out to stop thinking for a bit."

I smirk and shake my head. "You bet. How did you get all the way over here?"

Joel motions backwards with his thumb. "My bike, of course. Hop on, we got a long night ahead of us."

We ride by moonlight to the sketchy side of town where all the abandoned buildings and Skull Banger are— with him sitting on the seat and me standing on the back and holding onto his shoulders for balance.

The events play out like a hazy dream. One moment we're riding through a quiet moonlit street. In the next, we're surrounded by the intoxicating secondhand smoke and vapor of fellow Skull Banger guests. All around us are splatters of cryptic graffiti and bright red neon lights. The chaotic thrill of an electric guitar and the tempestuous thrash of metal drums blare from the live performance up front and reverberate off the walls, enticing everyone into a heated trance of aggressive movement.

I liberate my mind and body, and I kiss my sanity adieu before freeing myself to the crowd of rock zombies. I submit to the power of this merciless music and become one with all, banging my head to the rhythm and colliding again and again against complete strangers.

I wipe off sweat from my hot forehead and a fresh drop of blood from my lips. This is the irony of pain. We don't care. We don't care about hurting, or being hurt, because here is the only place where it's purely unintentional. Or so I thought.

It takes no less than a couple minutes to realize that I've lost Joel. I'm snapped to a cruel distorted reality when I hear a word directed towards me I would never want to hear. I'm suddenly shoved from behind. Hard. This is intentional, and I realize I'm being targeted.

I try to face my aggrevator when I'm suddenly shoved even farther away. Unsuspecting dancers continue in their wild trance but stay in their spot. Through swinging arms, leather, and Mohawks, I catch sight of a leather jacket with that red, nefarious symbol painted on its back. There's another dancer wearing a similar jacket standing next to them, and another with a pin of the same insignia on their shirt.

I hear a chilling chuckle right behind me, making my skin crawl. I turn around, dreading everything and fighting every ounce of dread begging me not to look up. A pale, heavy-built man with cold, menacing blue eyes smirks down at me. He stares deep into my soul in such a twisted way, raises his finger in the air, and starts spinning it.

"Go back to the jungle, you ######!" He cackles crudely before throwing his arm up with a straightened hand and yelling, "Sieg Heil!"

I take a step back and feel the blood drain from my face. My heart races faster. This has to be a bad dream. It can't be real.

To my horror, I hear multiple voices echo back the same words. I turn around to see a crowd of hands throwing up the same salute.

I have to get out of here. Fuck, where's Joel? People are yelling now, cursing out the Neo-nazis in protest while they preach white power. A violent mosh pit is set in motion. There's yelling and grunting coming from within the crowds as someone starts throwing punches. This incites even more screaming as more join in on the scuffle. I'm trapped between panicked and angry bodies.

Desperate to find the exit, I shove past oblivious dancers who are still stuck in a deep trance of purposeful panic, racist skinheads spitting at anyone who doesn't fit their agenda, and outraged punks trying to kick the racists out.

After what feels like a hellish eternity, I scramble out the exit, up metal stairs, through the graffiti tunnel, up the concrete ramp, and stop just around the corner. Others are scrambling out behind me and down the streets, but it's definitely less stifling out here.

I spot a familiar figure slouched against the wall, holding his wrist limply. I rush closer and he turns his face towards me, hiding his exhaustion and pain with a forced smile.

"Rain."

"Joel! Where were you? I was so worried!" I run up to him and hug him close. At last, I can't stop the tears from falling. I cry on his shoulder and hug him tighter. "I didn't know what to do, I was scared I'd left you behind."

"It's ok, I thought I'd left you behind, too. I'm so happy to see you safe," Joel says softly, nudging his head against mine. He doesn't hold me back.

"What's wrong with your hand?" I pull away and sniff back a tear, wiping my nose with my jacket sleeve.

Joel looks down, still holding up his wrist with the other hand. "Oh, this? I punched a Nazi in the face. I couldn't let him get away with all that shit he was saying."

I smile gently. "I don't know how you can be so brave."

Joel shakes his head. "It's not bravery. I should have looked for you instead."

"What could we have done? There were so many of them... You have to get that looked at soon, Joel," I touch his uninjured arm worriedly.

"What about you? Your nose and lip are bleeding," Joel motions with a nod. His eyes suddenly turn all bug-eyed and wide. It seems like the blood's drained from his face.

"It's not that a big a deal compared to you."

"Fucking shit, Rain, behind you!"

I whirl around to see a pack of Neo-Nazis waving around wooden baseball bats with tacks poking out the top. They've just emerged from down the ramp and are starting to spread out and chase people. One of them is looking dead at us.

"Oh my god, we have to get out of here NOW!" I drag Joel up hurriedly by the arm and have him lean on me while we start to run. "Go go go!"

"Where are you fuckers going? The party's just getting started!" The skinny aggressor taunts us before cackling maniacally.

"Joel, where's your bike?" I cry. He may be skinny, but that doesn't mean he won't be able to get a fatal hit once he swings that bat in our proximity.

"We're not going to make it in time," Joel shakes his head desperately while trudging his feet. That's when I realize: his leg is injured too. "You have to go without me, Rain. It's the only way. I won't be able to ride with you."

"You idiot! I'm not leaving you behind! Take a few more steps for me please, just around this corner. I'm begging you."

"I can't make it. I can't do it," he groans out miserably. I can almost feel his pain.

"Yes you can, you can! We're almost there, ok!"

"OK! Your head start is over when I count down from three," the skinhead's scratchy voice echoes from behind.

"Three..."

We finally turn the corner and I motion towards some stairs hidden behind an overgrown hedge.

"Two..."

Joel rushes down while gripping the rail. Meanwhile, I grab the lid off a nearby metal trash can and kick the can down so the clattering gives the illusion that we're in a rush down the street.

"ONE! Watch your necks, you little shits!"

I run down the steps and crouch at the door next to Joel. There's a faded FOR RENT sign taped over the door. Good thing all the buildings in this area are abandoned.

Joel and I keep our eyes locked on the top of the stairs, our hearts pounding with utter terror at the thought of sharing a destiny of potential annihilation on this young night.

Our hair stands on end when we heard the skitter of clunky boots, chains, and dangerous laughter. I swallow my breath and hold the metal lid out in front of us, ready for the worst.

The cackling is interrupted by a sudden shrill scream and a loud thump. Joel and I glance at each other in horror.

"Oof, you think you're some clever fuckers, huh? Makin' me slip on this pile of trash. You're going to be a bloody pile of human trash when I'm done with you!" The hunter runs off in the direction I wanted him to, chasing after his own twisted delusions of righteousness.

I finally breath a sigh of relief before glancing up at the crescent moon blending into a pale dawn. Joel smiles at me and I smile back. We slouch against the rusted door and bump our heads together affectionately. We've survived the night with both our heads on.

"Come on now, let's get outta here," I say with a voice of newfound determination. "I'll drive the bike and drop you off at your place."