A/N: Part 2 (Completion) has not been edited. As such, it is extremely unwieldly and not as refined as Part 1. I promise, if you are confused by a digression that happens, I'm almost just as confused as you are. I will get an editor as soon as I'm done with it, but please be patient with me for now.

***

Women like me are the scum of the earth.

Maybe I need to accept that fact - learn to live with it; maybe even embrace it! That would beat allowing myself to be ruled by the shame of it all.

The first step to freedom is accepting that you're not perfect.

Is it really possible, though, to free oneself from one's greatest weakness? Isn't the pursuit of perfection the one, true goal of all humans? Is that not what makes us all human?

I find it frustrating that the same questions that plague my mind today are the same ones that plagued it yesterday; the same ones that plagued it three years ago; the same ones that plagued it since I started to tell myself that I don't care anymore. I feel like I am stuck in a loop and people tell me I'm perfect the way I am, but I don't feel that way.

Well, back when I had people around me, they would tell me that.

Now, all I ever do is go to work and try to convince myself that life is still worth living, come back home and try to bury all my emotions under a bottle of sweet rosé. It usually costs me fifty nickers a bottle - you know, the cheap stuff. And I'll occasionally screw with Alejandro. Sometimes, it gets thrilling wondering when his fiancée will realise that he's fucking another woman. At least it allows me to feel something.

Women like me are the scum of the earth.

"I should go," Alejandro tells me, gently pushing my head off of his chest. "Valeria must be worried sick."

I feel the bile rise in my throat and I roll my eyes; then, I leave the room before he can say anything. It felt good to be in someone else's embrace, but women can't enjoy anything for too long. At least his shirt feels good on me.

Maybe getting caught wouldn't be the worst thing in the world.

I grab the wine from the fridge - a glass already in one hand - and pull the cork out with my teeth. Just then, Alejandro emerges from the bedroom in a shirt he had left with me the last time he was here. The next time he comes, he will take this one back and leave me with another. That's what I've become: a laundromat for a man who should be planning his wedding.

He frowns. "You're drinking."

"Wow! You can say a sentence without mentioning your fiancée's name?" I seethe.

Pause. "Edgar, if you want me to leave Valeria, just say the word. You know I'd do that in a heartbeat."

I take a sip. "Whatever, loser. Just go."

He sighs. His sigh is as heavy as the one he cries out when he comes - rife with guilt. However, where his coital cries never indicate any sense of wishing for me to stop, this one is weighed down by despair - like a man at the end of his rope; a man who needs just one reason to give up on life yet refuses to accept the million that scratch constantly at his feet.

He asks me to hug him. I refuse. It's no use lingering where I have no business being. "Valeria's worried sick," I remind him, spitefully.

He runs a hand through his hair and takes a seat at the couch right across from the island I've employed as a border between the two of us. I was happy when I first moved in to this apartment - it would be my first leap into being a truly functional adult and member of society. It is close to a few pubs and restaurants, and a lot of my neighbours are my age. Lately, however, I have found that I prefer being locked up inside its walls, and any thoughts of going out to meet anyone make my chest constrict. I much prefer watching them move about their business from my window.

"She can wait."

"When will you marry her?"

Pause. "I don't know."

The answer disgusts me more than it pleases me. I feel an anger rise in me. I douse it with a sip from the bottle in my hand, ditching the much-too-small glass. "Do you even love her?"

"I don't want to talk about Valeria."

He's getting angry, too. Good.

I've given up all hope of ever being happy. Happiness is overrated, anyway. Happiness only ever comes in short bouts, then it leaves and forces you to chase after it, but it is never the same. Chasing after happiness is the same as being addicted to cocaine, but at least cokeheads know they're fighting a losing game, and they'll never get that same high they got when they shot their first line. They now only fight to get the second-best thing - a way to feel good about themselves. People that chase after happiness have no such awareness. They all want to be happy, and they think the way to that is by fixing everything wrong with the world, but that isn't how it works. It's an inescapable loop: to be happy, one has to accept that the world can never be fixed, but still have the desire to fix it; once they lose this desire, their will to live fails them, and they can never be happy. Still, they must be careful because if they invest too much of themselves into fixing a broken system, they will be met with successive, devastating failures that suck the very humanness out of them: being happy requires one to be ignorant to that which they cannot fix.

That's why I can't be happy: I know too much to be happy.

"I'm sorry for leaving you," he delivers.

I tsk. "I've told you many times: I don't like talking about that."

He looks up at me from his eyelashes. He knows I love when he does that. "Still, I shouldn't have dropped you like a hot potato. I didn't even warn you of the whole thing."

Again, I throw some wine in to pacify that part of me that scares me - a woman filled with great rage and only wants to exact her revenge for everything that has been done to her. "Yeah, well; should've-could've-would've. I'm fine now; so, it doesn't matter."

He pauses again. "You don't look fine to me."

Feeling as though I am about to lose control, I look him dead in the eye. "Get out," I tell him sternly.

"I'm sorry; I-"

"Please leave."

Another sigh and he drags himself out the door.

Good. I have more important things to worry about: my banker's birthday is coming up and I may need to buy him a gift. Maybe I should just get him a watch to put in a drawer with a million other watches from all his other clients. That wouldn't be half bad: he's lucky he ever even gets gifts from his clients; my clients have never given me shit even after I've saved them from an onslaught on their very ability to work.

I don't think I would want anything from men that can't keep their junk in their pants, anyways; so, maybe it's for the best.

Success is very weird: you spend your entire life - from the time you are a child - trying to set yourself up so you have the greatest chance at earning anything substantial, but once (or, rather, if) you get where you've always wanted to get, everyday spent alive starts to feel like punishment. Why did you get everything you've been pining for? Why did you dream small? Are you lazy? Just get yourself a Louis Vuitton (or any designer you like) bag and call it a day.

Sometimes, I want to know what it's like to be born into wealth: do the same things that keep me up at night about my career trajectory keep billionaire kids up? Are they as driven? Do they feel as purposeless without a career (even though they seem to enjoy the fact that they don't need to work), or do their Jimmy Choos obliterate all feelings of purposelessness? They don't have that effect on me.

Or maybe they recognise that work doesn't have to be your greatest source of purpose. After all, it is strange that the one thing that gives us the greatest purpose is also the thing that slowly kills our desire to live. I am starting to find it strange that I hate having to wake up everyday and go to work, yet I simply cannot imagine my life without it. Isn't that strange? I think it is.

My phone pings:

Jamal:

10 mins away

can i cum over?

only if you won't stay too long

lol

im serious

k

Taking one last swig from the bottle, I flush all the rest in the sink. Is someone still your friend if they force you to waste a perfectly fine bottle of wine?

I walk leisurely to the bathroom and grab my toothbrush. I lather some toothpaste on it and shove it in my mouth, trying to get rid of any smell or stain the drink may have left on my teeth. I need to get some sleep.

A knock sounds at the door and I invite the visitor inside. It opens to let Jamal in. Even though he is very casual and doesn't look at all stern, there's a certain dignity to him that I can't place - he looks like he already knows everything there is to know in this world; he has a charming smile, set on a full, calm face, and his broad shoulders make his stance look more erect than that of most other people. I've always felt as though he could see through all my lies. Sometimes, it makes me feel like there's no use lying to him. Maybe it's the dreadlocks.

"Jonathan says you've stopped seeing him," he accuses after exchanging greetings.

I wave a hand dismissively as I join him on the couch. "I'm fine. It was temporary, what I needed help with, and I told him that it was sorted. There simply was no need to continue seeing him."

He looks at me sternly in the eye. "That's not what Jonathan says."

I rise and make my way to the kitchen island - it's a really good partition. "Well, maybe Jonathan doesn't know what he's talking about. What should I get you?"

"Nothing. Come. Join me."

"I need a favour."

"Okay."

"Do you think you could buy me a men's watch? My banker's birthday is coming up and I don't know what to get him."

"Why are you changing the topic?"

I was banking on him not being brave enough to call me out on my weak deflection, but after three years together, all inhibitions evaporate. I should've known that - I mean, I'm not scared to call him out, why should he be?

"I thought we were done with it."

"Edgar, you need therapy - you're depressed! Are you still taking your pills?"

I roll my eyes. "Like candy."

Pause. "It's fine if you don't want to see Jon anymore, although I don't think it's wise."

"Yeah, well. Will you get me the watch?"

"Sure."

I watch him from the counter. I don't know why he still chooses to be my friend: I'm just trouble, always making him question whether he's being a good friend - I started seeing Jonathan to address that, but it quickly became an insufferable task. I wish I could show him that the problem lies with me, and he should sleep like a baby, knowing there is nothing else he could possibly do for me.

"I miss Edward, sometimes," he ejects suddenly.

Sometimes, I wish the world would be fair. Sometimes, I look at Edward's Instagram and see a picture of him at a party. One would assume he's happy from his huge smile, but it isn't as radiant as I know it to be - his whole person just looks like it's trying too hard to find the real Edward, trying desperately to hide this absence of self and general sense of being lost with the mask of happiness, but I can see through it. I've tried calling him a few times, but he has seemingly had his number changed and has never tried to call me. At first, I thought I had done something to make him not want to talk to me, but, after a quick scroll through his Instagram, I realised he had also changed his relationship status to 'Single'.

It broke my heart.

I have tried to go see him in New York, but I don't know where he lives, and even though he's on Instagram, he never tags his location. I always ask myself how I feel about the whole thing, but I can never seem to decide.

"I'm sorry," I offer.

"Don't you?" he asks, looking at me with large eyes, baffled by my complete lack of emotion.

"I don't know. I think I do, but I can't decide what to have for breakfast; how am I supposed to know what to feel?"

He shrugs. "I'm sorry you feel that way."

I wave a dismissive hand at him. "Don't be."

He looks solemnly at me, yet his eyes refuse to meet mine: when they do meet, his quickly find another aspect to my face to focus on. I wish he wouldn't be so sad over me.

"You still haven't told me what you'll have," I challenge him.

He rubs the back of his neck. "I wasn't really planning on staying."

Suddenly, I want him to stay. The fact that he isn't available to me just makes me want his presence more. I guess that's how it always is for me - I always want what I can't have.

I sulk. "Come on! Stay a little longer."

He laughs. "I thought you didn't want me to stay?"

Lull.

"I can't keep up with you. It's fine, I'll stay; but I really do need to get going soon."

"Going to see Archie?" I attempt a smile and fail.

His eyes meet the rug. "Yeah."

"How is he?"

"Fine."

"Our conversations about him don't need to be so terse."

"Or we could just-not talk about him."

Archie and I haven't been able to find our footing, which has made life difficult for Jamal. We constantly bicker over whether he deserves to be with my friend to begin with - their relationship has been tumultuous from the time they started seeing each other. At first, it gave me hope that it wouldn't last - I always imagined that Jamal likes his peace, and generally avoids anything that threatens it, but that has not been the case with this boy. He constantly goes back, and I don't know why.

To be fair, Archie does seem to love Jamal, but he has a weird tendency to openly flirt with other men in Jamal's presence, especially after a fight. He has weird tendencies like actively monitoring the amount of time Jamal spends with me and always accusing him of cheating. Needless to say, this behaviour tends to drive Jamal to insanity. Generally, Archie seems to enjoy having Jamal drag him out of the club and force him to go back home; he seems to enjoy the thought that Jamal will drop engagements with his friends to drive to a club and drag him out.

It's all very disgusting to watch.

I choose to respect Jamal's wishes. "Alejandro was here."

"Really? What did he want?"

"We both know what he wanted, Jamal."

Pause. "It's wrong, Edgar."

I sigh. "I know!"

"So, why do it?"

"Because! It's the only thing that seems to get me going."

He stops to study me. I can only imagine what's going through his head right now: Jamal is extremely opinionated, and he won't hesitate to let you know of exactly what he thinks - what you choose to do with that is up to you, but he will have told you what he thinks. I sometimes wish he was less direct, but then I remember that is one of the things that made me love him in the first place.

"That's so sad."

I stare - I don't know what to say. He's right: it is sad that the only thing that gives me purpose is screwing with a (almost) married man for the thrill of it. Is the world that boring? Or am I the one that has become so rotten, so bankrupt of all humanity, that I can only find pleasure in the most despicable aspects of those around me?

"You're playing a very dangerous game that will not end well. Not for you; not for your little lover; not for that poor woman who thinks she's getting married to this amazing guy. I can't even feel sorry for you anymore."

"I don't want you to feel sorry for me," I mutter.

"Good! Because I don't."

I don't know why we're having this conversation right now. We both know that nothing will change after it. We both know that Alejandro'll be back here in two or three days - we just can't seem to get our hands off of each other, yet we can't seem to be able to work our shit out. Well, Alejandro has tried a million times to fix this mess. I've turned him down a million times. Why fix something that isn't broken?

Except something is broken - maybe it's me.

"It's whatever, Jamal. We both know we're far from stopping this whole thing."

He pierces my soul. "Do you even want to stop?"

I stare.

He sighs. "Let's just talk about something else."

I've always been a fan of late-night conversations - they always seem to help me uncover things about the people around me. My therapist from a few years back - Jolene - showed me how they can help me uncover things about myself. However, I've grown to dislike self-discovery and the like. Now, I tend to listen more than I speak, and I've found my silence serves both missions very well. The speakers also seem to enjoy my uninterrupted attention; so, it's a win for me and a win for them.

I bring out snacks for us to eat as Jamal tells me about one of the reasons that made him move to the UK (aside from his obsession with photography): "The polarisation just got too much for me; it's like, I can't exist without being turned into a political subject. What most people don't realise is that I could've, just as easily, moved to New York and had a fantastic career, but I'd still be in the United States. That place is just so depressing - everyone's always primed to fight and see anyone with an opinion different from theirs as an enemy. It's just depressing. I can't exist in my dreadlocks, without having someone immediately see it politically.

"There's a lot of condescending talk; no one wants to listen to anyone. It's horrible. I genuinely feel like the United States is about to go up in flames, and I don't want to be a part of that."

"Well," I pipe up, "I'd argue the UK is no different."

He shakes his head. "Wrong. The UK is very different. I mean, there are people on the fringe - I won't deny that - but it isn't mainstream here. Do you realise that people that believe in QAnon are lawmakers in the United States?"

I smile. "Well, it's true. The States is a joke."

"Yeah, well." He looks at his watch and almost drops dead. "I need to go. I promised Archie I'd visit."

I look at the time. 23:38. "It's late, Jamal. Just text him an apology and he'll be fine."

Even I don't believe that.

He chuckles. "Clearly, you don't know Archie."

Trust me, I do.

I rise. "Well, let me see you out."

He shakes his head. "It's fine. Talk soon."

And he's out.

I sit and stare at the blank tv in front of me.

Have I had my pills yet?

I go to the cabinet and take the canister. Yeah, I don't think I had taken them. Good thing I have a sharp memory, sometimes.

I'm not happy.

I grab my phone and scroll through Pornhub - maybe watching a porno will help me forget about my depression for a few, blissful minutes.

None of the thumbnails entice me. Why does the penis look so weird? Maybe I'll eventually find something I like if I keep scrolling. I don't.

I think it's insane that there is a category of porn called 'women's porn'. I found it hysterical when I read one comment where the viewer was shocked that the woman - as per their observation - looked as though she genuinely enjoyed the sex. I didn't see it, but that's beside the point. Why do people comment on porn sites?

I eventually decide on an amateur lesbian page. It's better this way. I'm always underwhelmed when I masturbate to straight porn, anyways, and it always seems to worsen my depression.

I remember the first time I masturbated - I was fourteen and Sophie had a friend over, the only friend she had as she was generally not a sociable person (I think it's ironic how much I've turned out like her in that respect). She had forced me to make tea for them and I resigned to my bedroom after giving them salt instead of sugar with it - she was embarrassed and tried to hit me with a belt, but I locked myself in my room for two days. I don't know what I had expected from the masturbating session, but I remember I was standing, and I fell to my knees when I achieved an orgasm, having hard work to make sure I didn't scream. I just knelt there, trembling, thinking I had broken myself. It wasn't painful, but it wasn't pleasurable. It was just the feeling that something was leaving me through my vagina.

I promised myself I would never masturbate again and broke the vow in the space of three months. Now, I do it - at least - every other day.

I check my phone for the time: 00:16. I need to get some sleep.

I get dressed and go under the sheets.

Hopefully, sleep comes quickly.

***

A/N: I know I've already done this, but please vote and tell me what you think I should improve. I know it's probably a lot, and I'm prepared to hear all of it. What do you think about the changes in the characters from the last part?

Also, I'm not sure if you'd noticed, but this is no longer a romance.