I hand Diwa a cup of water and she downs it as though she's been lost in a desert for a week. Rivulets escape the corners of her mouth to run down her neck. Once empty, she thrusts the plastic cup back at me for a refill, half of which she drinks equally quickly.

Without getting off the floor, she shuffles backwards and slumps against the wall opposite the toilet. Turquoise hand towels brush the top of her head. From there, she stares at me.

'I'm sorry.'

Any grudge I held against her has dissipated and her apology arrives as an icy wind. To escape its scrape against my cheek, I turn to the mirror cabinet, opening it to grab the denim pouch from the top shelf.

'You don't gotta apologise. Getting pathetically drunk is a rite of passage.'

But Diwa shakes her head. 'Not about that. About being a proper cunt all the time.'

'Look.' I swivel to face her. It's your fault. 'I know I did it first, but you need to stop calling yourself a cunt.'

She shrugs, too tired to argue.

'I were only tryna be cool and friendly and engage with my peers. I don't think I'm better than anyone.' Her voice gets progressively quieter until it's barely a whisper. 'No one needs to not like me cause of that.'

I tongue the back of my teeth as I watch her. 'If you want folk to like you so bad, have ya considered being nicer?'

'Rich coming from you.'

'I don't want no one to like me, innit. Intentional, that is.'

'Everyone wants to be liked. Pretty sure that's a linchpin of the human condition.'

I click my tongue. Only she would use a word like linchpin while drunk out of her mind.

'Most of the people in our year are completely unbearable so why would you wanna be mates with any of them?'

She don't answer.

Returning my attention to the denim pouch, I dig around the contents until I find a blister pack of aspirin. I toss it to her. 'Take one of those when you ain't gonna vomit it right back up.'

Diwa holds it in a loose fist.

Head resting against the linoleum wall as though it's a memory foam pillow, she looks at me through hooded eyelids. 'How come you didn't join? I thought you liked parties.'

'I don't. I like alcohol.' Sighing, I give in. 'I used to live here.'

Her stare prods the side of my neck but I keep mine locked with the bottle of contact lens solution on the lowest shelf of the cabinet. It's Sakda's. I could exchange it with disinfectant, get a strike in my favour without tarnishing my act of professionalism—Cobham could never prove it were me.

'Me and Sakda came here together. From the same residential home, too. We've got history,' I say, a tug of a grin at the corner of my mouth. 'Not sexually.'

Diwa remains quiet long enough for the fear she might have lost consciousness to creep in. Just as I'm about to check, she speaks.

'Is that why you're so afraid?'

She's got you.

'I'm not afraid.'

I place the first-aid pouch in its designated spot and snap the door shut to be confronted by my reflection. For a split second, fourteen-year-old me stares back. Then the image glitches back into reality and I flinch. Beewolf climbs up my arm, its stinger ready to paralyse.

I force my eyes to the drain at the centre of the basin. Out of sight, out of mind, right? Except Beewolf is nowhere but my mind and even if I don't look, I can feel every step of its six legs until its antennae brush my cheek.

'It's nowt personal with Sakda,' I say, my voice flat without effort. 'Just survival of the fittest.'

Diwa's eyes shut again and I watch her through the mirror until I realise that my socks are wet. I look and find the sink overflowing. Two inches of water already flood the floor. How did I forget the faucet running?

I twist the cold tap shut but the water only rushes out faster so I twist it the other way. It comes faster still.

The brass rattles; the force of the water is about to burst the tap right off the porcelain. Though I have no memory of opening the hot tap, I twist that one too, first one way, then the other.

The water only rushes out faster. It's up to my ankles now. Toothbrushes float by my trainers. The plastic cup has slipped out of Diwa's hand to bob on the surface.

The water rises much faster than it should out of one tap. And Diwa is still passed out. She'll drown. She'll drown!

They'll all drown, Beewolf cackles. Where do you think the water is coming from?

Chlorine.

The house is flooding. Everyone downstairs will already be gone, their bloated bodies trapped against the living room ceiling with no air left. It's your fault.

It's what you wanted.

I didn't want them to die!

I clamp my palm against the tap to stop the water but it's flooding in from every crack now. It's everywhere. There's chlorine everywhere. And Diwa's still passed out against the wall with water up to her neck.

Intending to stand her up, I step toward her but Beewolf whispers in my ear, you could stab her, and I freeze. It would be so easy. She's passed out, she can't defend herself. You know you want to.

No, I don't.

What if you do?

Gunshot. I flinch.

Diwa presses an aspirin from the packet with a rustle of foil, grimaces as the pill parches her tongue. Chugs the water. Smacks the mug on the floor with an air of finality. I stare at her.

There's no flooding. There's no gun either; it were just the pill popping out of the blister pack.

'My mum barely talks to me since I came out,' she says.

I scrunch my toes in my socks. Dry. She's too drunk to realise that her words crumble into syllables in my hands, that my reality is fraying at the seams. I have no idea if this is actually happening or if my brain is concocting it on its own.

Diwa manoeuvres herself to her feet and brushes down her pleated skirt as if it'll make her look any less dishevelled.

'Dad says she'll come around. I dunno. It's been five months.'

As much experience as I might have with being drunk, I'm untrained in offering help beyond the technicalities of how to minimise the effects of alcohol. Especially to Diwa, who I've never imagined having troubles greater than homework. So I say nowt as I step aside for her to wash her hands and face.

Beewolf clacks its wings with joy at my uselessness.

I allow her to use me as a crutch when we leave the toilet and head down the stairs, both of us hit with vertigo as we descend. In the entrance, I dig through the jackets piled onto the five hooks outside the wardrobe for Diwa's woollen coat which she manages to get into on her own. Doing the buttons, however, drains the last of her energy and she slumps against the newel post of the staircase.

'It's so comfortable here.' She smacks my arms away and nuzzles into the balusters.

'That'll be the alcohol talking–'

'Don't reckon I invited you.'

Survival instinct activates, flicks the switch in my brain to autopilot. Adrenaline elbows anxiety out of the way. Diwa's worry spiral about how she can't go home muddies. The music and chatter turn sluggish, the jungle-pattern wallpaper sharper.

With my breathing echoing in my head, my eyes venture to Sakda (HURT), who leans against the kitchen doorway with razor blades for teeth.

He'll drown you.

Sakda (painhurtPAIN) gestures at Diwa with the lit cigarette between his fingers. 'Or Algebrat, for that matter. Though I reckon you're mates now you're in maths olympiad.'

He smirks as I plummet down the food chain. The vindictive twist recedes only when his lips wrap around the filter to inhale. He makes no move of attack but it's not clemency: his intoxication relative to my sobriety is my only protection. We both know this.

I played russian roulette coming here. "Just get Diwa. In and out. No one will see." Idiot.

You'll never be safe. You–

–should've learnt that by now.

This is his turf and we shouldn't be here. Sakda offers a two-week notice, but the payment will be made. I'll pay, if I have owt to do about it.

'What, were you feeling homesick?' Sakda mocks. 'Oh, sorry, you've not got one of them, have ya?'

I try to mutter a protest but I know he's right. It's Nicolás's home. I just live in it... for now. I don't stick.

Instead, I contest the first of his charges. 'We weren't staying.'

Sixth sense, my eyes find a bottle of Tesco Everyday Value vodka someone has forgotten on the kitchen table behind him. It would dull the knives and the needles cleaving through my skin. It would blur the terror into vague discomfort. The solution is only five yards away.

I turn to Diwa, who's still talking though nobody listens. She falls silent when my eyes meet hers.

'Please. Vámonos.'

And for once, I'm granted a small victory. She pulls herself to her feet with the handrail and locks her arm with mine.

Sakda's eyes press branding irons to the back of my neck until we reach the door. 'Watch the ice.' His voice alone sandpapers all protective friction from my trainers.

            What if you do?

What if you do want her to die? What if you push her under the next car? She's drunk, she wouldn't know what happened. What if you're a murderer? What if–

–you like it?

The stink of chlorine fades as we limp southbound but there's enough in my bloodstream to poison me. I can feel it contaminate each vein, heavier than my blood, and the closer it gets to my heart, the stronger Beewolf becomes. It's only a matter of time.

Until what, I'm not sure. The apocalypse. Until I die.

Until Diwa dies. Until Nicolás dies. Until Caleb dies. Until Lailah dies. Until Elliot dies. Until everyone I've cared about dies. Even Sakda. And it'll be my fault.

It's always my fault.

Because you were born evil.

We're passing the Welcome Store on the corner of Great Western Street where two uni students in pyjamas are picking out midnight snacks when Diwa, still leaning on me with at least half her weight, interrupts Beewolf.

'He's such a knobhead.'

It's a match scraped against the inside of my ribs. 'He's not a bad person,' I protest. 'He's sixteen. I don't reckon you're even a person at sixteen, innit. I definitely don't feel like one.'

I focus on her weight against me, on her dragged footsteps. Each one brings relief with it, reminders that she's alive, that I haven't hurt her and forgot about it. She smells of cheap alcohol but the crisp winter air is cleansing it off her and I catch hints of her floral perfume.

'You don't know what it's like. To live without parents.'

I don't expect her to answer, but then I feel her shrug the best she can with our arms linked. 'Dunno. I've always reckoned orphans a bit lucky. You can imagine your parents to be whatever you like and won't ever be disappointed.'

I don't say nowt.

'Besides,' her voice is abruptly chipper, 'I never said he's a bad person. I said he's a knobhead.'

Laughter weaves into my exhale. 'You're right.'

Sticking her chin up, she hums in a "I know, I'm always right" way. I let her enjoy it until she abruptly freezes, rooting to the pavement with surprising strength.

Pulling her arm from mine, Diwa covers her face. 'I made such a fool myself tonight. I reckon I should move to Somerset. Annabella must think I'm a complete git.'

'And that matters because...?' My mockery dissolves on its own. 'Oh, I see. You fancy her.'

'I don't fancy her!'

'You fancy Annabella,' I sing and yank her along. I weren't planning on spending all night walking about Moss Side with Diwa. 'You should tell her.'

'No way! She wouldn't... like me like that. I'm Algebrat and a stuck-up cunt.' She cuts over me as I go to interrupt, 'Besides, my mum can barely accept me being a lesbian in theory; she'd have a stroke if I tried it in practice.'

'Fuck parents.'

Diwa chuckles. 'Easy for you to say, orphan.'

I shove her, gentle so she don't actually lose her balance. 'Shut up.'

When we reach a bus stop, I sit her on the bench and she actually stays upright. Her eyes are starting to clear up and I trust she won't die as I turn to scan the timetables tucked beneath a plastic sheet on the pole.

'There'll be a bus to yours in a quarter of an hour.'

Diwa's relaxation splits into panic. 'My parents will kill me if they see me like this. I snuck out. And I'm not allowed to drink.' She clings to my coat and shakes me so I'll understand the gravity of the situation. 'I told ya, I can't go home.'

'You can't sleep on the street, so what's the plan?'

She stares up at me.

'You didn't... make any sort of plan, did you?'

Diwa shakes her head.

I'm kinda starting to get why people get so angry when I'm impulsive; it really is dead annoying to deal with.

'Fine.' I already know I'll regret it. 'Fine. You can sleep at mine.'

Notes

Residental home: Group home for kids in foster care.

Vámonos: Let's go.