Page 39 of Vicious Addictions

I try my best to compartmentalize my actions and tell myself that the person I killed today—regardless of gender—was ready to take my life, too, without remorse.

But instead of logic seeping through, I stare blankly at the ceiling, watching the room’s colors shift, light filtering through the curtains as the sun creeps higher into the sky.

Sleep doesn’t come. Just numbness.

I’m still lost in my turbulent thoughts when I hear a faint creak. I quickly stand up, gun in hand, my heart hammering inside my chest at the slightest sound.

“It’s me! It’s me!”

Mina.

She stands in the doorway, hands raised in her school uniform.

I exhale, lowering the gun.

“The fuck are you doing here, Mina? I could’ve blown your head off.”

“I’m sure glad you didn’t,” she giggles as if it were a joke. But when her gaze drops to the seriousness in my expression, her smile fades.

“Go away, Mina,” I groan, turning away from her and placing my gun back on the nightstand.

But instead of leaving me, she walks right over to my side of the bed, taking a seat on the edge.

“What’s wrong?” she asks softly.

“Nothing.”

“You’re lying. It’s Friday morning, and you’re here. In bed.” She tilts her head my way. “Tell me what happened for you to come home a day early.”

When I don’t reply, she inches closer.

“I’m not complaining. I like it when you’re here. But I can sense that something is wrong. Tell me. Maybe I can help.”

“Leave me alone.” I close my eyes, hoping she’ll get the hint.

She doesn’t.

“Something is troubling you, and I won’t leave until I know what it is.”

I stand midway off the bed and look her straight in the eyes.

“Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

“Because that’s not what friends do. They don’t leave each other when the other is in pain.”

I fling back on the bed, pressing my closed fist on my temple with my eyes shut.

“If you don’t tell me, I can always call the twins and find out,” she threatens.

I scoff.

“I really don’t understand how you can be friends with those two. They’re psychotic,” I mumble.

“They’re not that bad.” She shrugs off.

“They’repsychotic.”

“No, they’re my family. And I love them. I know they can be a little rough around the edges, but they truly aren’t that bad,” she continues to defend.

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