**TRIGGER WARNING** Drug references made. Reader discretion is advised.

I don't know what's happening

When the dam breaks

It's some sort of bittersweet decadence

You took my breath away

Diamonds on fire

You look pretty silly

With the wool pulled back

Exposing the evil angel that you are

Rage is the response to a stealthy paradox

Something the mind cannot shut off

--From the song Wounded

Lyrics by: Orion Bauwens

A week has passed rather uneventfully. Tristan is currently out at the local gym. I'm at home, cleaning. Well, rearranging. I've already cleaned everything.

I'm currently reorganizing the top shelf of my closet. Not like I have much else to do. I'm already bored of video games, and I keep having the same melody in my head so there's no point in putzing around on my guitar.

I'm surprised when my phone rings. Without looking at the caller ID I answer, holding the phone between my ear and shoulder.

"Yo what's up?"

"Heeeeeeeey Orion buddy!"

I damn near drop the phone and topple off the step stool I'm on. I have to reach out and grab the closet rod to not lose my balance. Fuck. Fuck.

"Oh. H-hey, Simon."

I can't believe I forgot to block his number.

"So, I heard you ended your tour a little early, eh buddy?"

"Y-yeah."

Hang up. Just hang up on him!

But I can't. That'd be rude. Which is pathetic. I need to eject this guy out of my life like a rotten tooth but I can't bring myself to be rude. I know--ironic, innit?

"What gives?"

"Just tired," I mumble, pinching the bridge of my nose and screwing my eyes shut tight.

"How long you off for?"

"I d'no," I answer honestly.

"Wanna hang out?"

"I can't. Busy."

"What about tomorrow?"

"Busy then too."

"This weekend?"

"Maybe," I lie. "I d'no dude, I'm pretty busy. Plus I just want to relax."

"Does relaxing include any parties?"

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuckity fuck fuck. "No."

There's a long pause. And with every passing second I can feel the rage and anxiety growing in my chest.

"Oh. So it's like that, huh? That kinda break?"

"Simon," I growl, "was there a point to this?"

"Yeah, I wanted to know if you needed anything. But it sounds like you falling off the planet for four months and you not needing anything means it's one of those kinda breaks, huh?"

"I don't know what you mean," I reply, barely keeping it together.

"C'mon, dude. When's the next time you plan on throwing a party?"

"I don't."

I can hear the smug smile on his face. "Exactly."

"I swear to God Simon!" I scream so loudly it hurts my throat, "if you tell anyone, anyone, I am going to murder you!"

"Woah, dude, I won't--"

"Swear to me!"

"I swear dude!"

"No one needs to know my shit, got it?"

"Okay, okay, got it!"

There's a pause where the only thing either of us can hear is my panting.

"Well, if you ever need to buy--"

I pull the phone away from my ear, screaming directly into the mouthpiece. "Lose my number forever Simon!"

With that I hang up and wing the phone with all my might. Then I have an absolute fit. I sweep my arms along the shelves I just painstakingly cleaned, knocking everything within arms reach onto the floor. I step off the stool and throw that, too. For a while I tear at my clothes that are hanging, ripping them down. I even throw the hangers about everywhere.

When that's done and over with I walk out, running my hands through my hair and down my face. I start doing everything the therapists have told me to do in these situations. Count. Breathe in five, breathe out five. Ground myself, touch things and say what they are out loud. Imagine my anger as a red string attached to a balloon and watch it as it floats up from the pit of my stomach out the top of my head.

But none of it works. And as I mentally cross off every technique, and as every damn one doesn't work, I just get angrier and angrier. They told me it would take awhile to master these. That I had to be patient with myself.

As I storm past my dresser, I make the mistake of catching my reflection in the mirror. I barely recognize myself, my eyes deep cesspools of rage. I'm frowning at myself. Truthfully, I look scary.

Is that what I look like when I get like that? Jesus, I can't believe I have anyone in my life if I look like this. You don't deserve them, you psycho. It's disheartening I can't control my anger. You're pathetic. I can't believe I didn't think to block my drug dealer's number from my phone. You're stupid, so fucking stupid.

The next thing I know my hand is killing me. I snap out of it, my ears ringing with my own screams. I've been punching the wall, over and over and over. There's a bloody circle where my fist has been hitting it.

I double-over, clutching my right arm with my left.

"Fuck!"

Pain is shooting from my fingertips to my elbow. That phrase--shooting pain--is used in books a lot. I never knew it was an actual sensation until now, and it's horrible. When I try to move my arm, my elbow aches. I look at my shaking hand.

The middle knuckle and pinky knuckle look wrong. The middle is so swollen already it has to be dislocated or something. I watch as a bruise starts to form; I've never really watched a bruise happen before, and it reminds me of liquid spilled on a tablecloth.

Tentatively I try to move my fingers. It makes me whimper. I can, but barely. I try again but it's excruciating. A thought rams into my brain like a sledgehammer suddenly.

I screwed up my hand. I screwed up my hand! I play the fucking guitar and I just beat a wall bloody!

I run downstairs, cradling my hurt arm. I don't even have the thought to grab some ice, too much panic coursing through my mind and clouding it. Instead I grab my keys, punch in the security code to my alarm system, and leave.

I would've called him first, but on the way out of my bedroom I saw that my phone was smashed into pieces on the floor. So instead I stand here now on Jake's porch, jamming his doorbell over and over and over again. After a minute the door flies open. When he sees me, he looks pissed.

"Christ dude, what?"

"I think I need to go to the hospital," I blurt out.

"Oh fuck." He grabs me. "Are you alright? What did you do?"

I hold up my hand, flinching when I feel my elbow pop and grind. His eyes grow huge. He gently ushers me into the house, shutting the door behind me.

"I'll get ice and then drive you to the hospital, okay?"

All I can do is nod.

By the time everything is said and done at the ER, it's four in the morning. I'm exhausted. Somehow, I miraculously didn't break anything.

My pinky was jammed really badly, while the middle knuckle was dislocated (which they fixed). The bruising looked strange--my middle knuckle was dark black and blue, with a splotch on my wrist. Then the entire right side of my hand was one long blue and black streak.

Jake was nice enough to have waited for me the entire time. I was sent home with some Vicodin. I insisted on only two. I never did drugs regularly and wasn't looking to get addicted to a pain killer.

Simon's service's had never been for me; they were for everyone else who wanted them at the parties I held. No--my childish escape was legal and could be found at the bottom of a bottle.

As Jake drives us home, tears silently roll down my eyes. I hope he doesn't notice. For a couple blocks we don't say anything. Then he rubs his eyes with a big yawn and speaks.

"What was that about?"

"Simon called me," I mumble.

"You did that because your drug dealer called?"

I break down. "I'm just so stupid."

Jake looks at me bewildered. He pulls into the empty parking lot of a convenience store and puts the car in park.

"I mean, I was in rehab. How did I forget to get rid of that loser's number?"

"You had an oversight. It happens."

"But it was such a stupid mistake."

"You're human, Ori."

"Hey well maybe I don't wanna be!"

He furrows his brow. "What's that even mean?"

"I just--fuck!" I grab at my hair and cry harder.

"Hey, calm down." He puts a hand on my shoulder.

"Why is everything so hard for me?" I ask, sniffing. "That's what I mean. Everything that seems to come so easily to everyone else I just screw up."

"There's plenty of things you don't screw up."

"What I do screw up outweighs anything good I do."

He grabs me on both sides of my face, forcing me to look at him. "That's not true Orion. And the quicker you realize that, and the quicker you stop putting yourself down and telling yourself horrible things, the quicker things like tonight won't happen, okay?"

My eyes fall off to the side.

"Hey!" I look at him. "I said, okay?"

I nod. He wipes away a few of my tears with his thumbs. Then he reaches over to the glove box, pulls out some tissues, and shoves them at me. "Now stop getting boogers all over me."

I laugh. But he's right--I've made enough of an ass out of myself for one night.

The rest of the ride is in silence. When we pull up to my house I hesitate.

"You can get out now."

I look at Jake and his playful smirk fades. I look down.

"I'm really embarrassed by everything. I'm not--I'm not usually like this."

"I know, Ori."

"I don't know what's gotten into me--"

"You're going through a lot right now, okay?"

I don't respond.

"Hey--remember all the times I told you that you shouldn't bottle everything up?"

I roll my eyes. "Yeah, I know--go ahead and say, told ya so."

"Orion! No, I'm not here to rub anything in your face." He sighs. "All I'm saying is that this is why it's happening. And since we know why, and since you're getting help now, it'll pass, okay?"

"But what if it doesn't?"

He clasps me around the back of my neck, pressing his forehead to mine. "You'll be okay."

Even though I'm not sure I believe him, I nod. He smiles and reaches over, opening up the car door. "Good. Now get the fuck out of my car so I can go to sleep."

I do exactly that. We both pause before I shut the door.

"Thanks."

He flips me off. I grin and shut the door. I'm feeling a bit better. I can't wait to just get in and sink down into my bed and--

"Where have you been?"

Oh shit. "Tristan."

"I come back and you're not here, and your closet is torn apart and there's blood on the wall and--"

"I am so, so sorry."

"I called Ben and he didn't know, and I tried calling Jake but he never answered--"

"I am really sorry."

"Are you alright?"

I lift my hand up, showing him my bandaged hand and wrist. His eyes grow in concern.

"What happened?"

"A mistake."

He narrows his eyes. "Orion."

I sigh heavily, and then it turns into a yawn. I just want to take out my contacts and go to sleep. "My drug dealer called me, I told him to never call me again, I freaked because I made a stupid mistake, punched the wall, had Jake drive me to the hospital, and here we are."

Tristan rushes over. "Is your hand okay?"

"Yeah. Luckily."

"Luckily is damn right!" he snaps at me. "You could've ended your career!"

"You think I don't know that?" I'm angry, but I'm so tired I don't really have it in me to show it.

"You shouldn't do things like that."

I roll my eyes. "I know."

"Well clearly you don't because you did it."

"Lay off, okay? I feel bad enough as it is!"

He comes closer then and hugs me. "You're right. Sorry. I was just--worried. Really, really worried Orio."

"I know. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

"Yeah well, you did. Your actions have consequences."

I glare. "You think I don't know that?"

"I know you do. You're smart. It's just a reminder Orion. It's just a reminder that you have people who care about you, okay? Like that girl last week."

He had a point, and a part of me hated him for it.