George and I stand before the door, my feet constantly moving back and forth on the hospital's greasy floor. "I can't do this, George."

"Do you think it's easy for me? She will want to kill me when she finds out," he murmurs and clasps my hand within his, the warmth least bit assuring.

Mia's mother called to give the news about her seizure. I tried to sound taken aback, but we all knew how she was derailing and that was simply what  she thought she could put on display for us to feed on. She wanted me to visit Mia, to be there for her, and I didn't have the heart to tell her the truth. That George or I being with her would hardly make any difference to her condition, worsen it even if we stayed too long. As far as I have observed, there is only person who can actually help her and why I can't manage to put together it's organic nature bewildering to me. But as timing would have it, Archie is off to a trip with his football teammates to Washington.

"Let's go," George pulls me back to reality, and I nod in approval. He pushes the door open while I duck behind, following him inside  while my fingers clutch harder onto his.
My eyes waver off to the gloomy, pale pink wallpaper of the room. It appears like a regular bedroom with a four shelved closet, a flat screen hung up on the wall, some paintings, and yet looks so insipid at the same time. Just the feeling makes me sick to my stomach.

And that is until I spot Mia. She is sitting up straight on the bed with the biggest smile plastered on her face. To anyone else she would look appear the happiest person to exist, but not everyone has access to the handbook to reading Mia and all the bloody exceptions she came with.  "It's the medicines, right?"

"Yeah," George whispers, snapping his gaze from her visibly swollen arm, right above the cannula attached to her veins.

She looks at us both with dead eyes, and I cannot help observing the contempt brewing within them. "Look at that, Emma, you were right after all. I ended up in a rehab." It was already coming to be difficult. I can bet that I'm not even the last person she would have wanted to see right now. "What are you doing here?" She sternly questions, her voice coming out as an ironical whisper.

George and I simultaneously exchange glances before answering. "We wanted to see you, and... apologise. I never should have initiated that bet, Mia. I started it all as nothing more than a joke, I didn't even think it would come down to them winning." George explains, and it's funny how it is the actual truth. The blunt honesty isn't going to work in this case, though.

Mia gives an illusion of analysing his words before spilling the venom sitting at the tip of her tongue. "Have you ever caught an STD? If you do, I wish for it to be so horrible that it kills you."

George doesn't argue with it for Mia's sake and because he knows how those words are inevitably sitting on his karma, already spoken by a majority of girls in the tri-state area. But the colourlessness of his face is well visible within the corner of my eyes, screwing with my nerves.

All I do is, release a sigh and wait for the missiles to be fired in my direction. It isn't about what she says, but the impact it will create on our minds. Until now, we had been doing a subpar of job of convincing ourselves that her addiction isn't on any of us. But all it took was one unfortunate incident to shatter our houses made of glass and tear us apart with guilt.

We thought she will let this all go after the humiliation at Daniel's— keep a safe distance from the rest of us. Then again, it's probably our fault that we made this group so tight knitted, cutting ties doesn't strike as an option. She will get us down to our worst selves if needed, but wouldn't let a word out in the open.

"I am sorry, too," the words tumble right out of my mouth. "I shouldn't have said all those things about you, even if I didn't mean any of it. I don't know if this helps, but you were just at the receiving end of the regret I had been keeping in since so long. Instead of settling things with Archie, it just felt easier to blame someone else. To give a reason for the mess our relationship had turned into." I painstakingly admit in an attempt of soothing her vexed mind. It's better to be walking on eggshells with a bully at a loss of targets.

She doesn't say anything for quite sometime, and I take a breath of relief all too early. "I feel bad for you and Archie, I really do. You guys went from being the most favoured couple in Arlington, to ripping each other's heads off in no time. In fact, this vaguely reminds me of the time Archie kissed me and called it a mistake right after."

My eyes immediately dart to the floor to cover my reaction, because there isn't any to give. I know all about how it went down. It was a planned move to make the bet successful, and as a matter of fact, I'd laughed and spilled my beer— "until it happened again. Another mistake, except I was the one sticking labels the next time around."

What? I search her eyes, for the trace of dishonesty, anything I can hang onto and declare her commentary a lie. It's difficult to when my own eyes are turning heavier by the second, a lump now residing in my throat.

"It's still vivid in my memories, though. The way our lips moved in sync with each other, and how he pulled me on top of his lap, while my hands trailed under his shirt," she pauses, sneaking a glance to acknowledge my expressions, their severity,.

Them shakes her head in disgust, looking nowhere, something churning in her mind, the thought of what coupled with the mental image she's just given me, unnerving. "Please leave," she orders, turning to her side. The drip pipe attached to her wrist ruptures under her weight as she lies back on the bed. A spout of blood— appearing in the form of translucent bubbles— rises back in the pipe.

Her mother said it was because she experienced constant nausea, vomiting out on an empty stomach. I think I now know why her voice sounds so crass— she thrashed her throat with the excessive episodes of... letting it all out. And she had no one by her side when it happened. She's had to face it all by herself. "We might be pretty much useless and shitty, but we are still your friends, Mia. We do care about you," George says, the concern lacing his voice genuine,

"Don't test my patience," she says, teeth gritting, but we don't move by a fraction.

I take quiet steps near her bed, placing a shaky hand over her shoulder, inspite of the many warnings. What follows isn't expected by any of us. Substance abuse makes a person do things he wouldn't do otherwise. That's the only reason.

She flinches at what might be nothing more than the suddenness of my touch, and instantaneously raises her hand to connect with my cheek. The smacking sound echoes in my ears until the aftermath of her action takes over my body.

George stands in front of me— cupping my cheeks, but I am deprived of any sensation. I don't even notice the nurses rushing inside, until Mia yelps in reaction to their brutal approach. They tightly hold Mia by her arms and legs as she makes use of her residual energy to resist their grip.

"Can you please help us?" A nurse calls out as it becomes more and more difficult to keep her relaxed. We cautiously hold onto her flapping arms, while they inject a medicine in the syringe. She helplessly screams, making us feel as though we are responsible, holding her captive.

"Step aside," the nurse instructs us, taking over the situation. I predict Mia would end up pushing them yet again. She is too weak, though. So much, that she almost gives up after a few seconds– her gaze switching over to us. Her eyes are brimming with tears, holding a pleading expression. She looks at me expectantly, despite all the satanic deeds done on both sides. I can tell that she is in pain, and that it goes beyond the scars covering her wrists, as those nurses tie her down to the mattress of the bed.

"I am so sorry," I struggle to even mouth the words and watch her settle back while they go on to further inject her to take control of the situation. She turns lifeless as the drug dissolves in her body, a rogue tear slipping through her eyes.

I stumble back, barely holding up the facade of looking like I'm unaffected. My legs retreat themselves before I can have a mental breakdown in the room. I run without any motive, escaping every demon trying to catch up to me, telling me I'm faulty for her falling down the tunnel and to a point where escape doesn't look easy or even retrievable. You're pathetic, the voices repeat, blurring amidst each other yet the impact never dulling.

I finally come to a halt at a distinct spot in the parking lot, screeching footsteps following behind me. "Emma, are you okay?" George panics, looking at the streaks of red across my cheeks.

"I'm fine, I will be fine. I am just scared for her," I choke a sob, remembering her entreating eyes.

"Me, too," he admits and pulls me by my arm, my shaky frame enclosed within his, seeking support. We stay so, my breaths harsh against his chest while he continues rubbing circles on the small of my back. As twisted as it maybe, hearing his jumpy heartbeat is what puts me at an unparalleled ease, knowing I'm not alone.

It might also be because of the faded scent of gin lingering around, which makes me suspect his sobriety.

"Why do you smell like gin?" I ask, pulling away. He shyly averts his gaze from me.

"You gifted me this cologne on my last birthday, in case you have forgotten?"

"Your last birthday? I remember we were all at a party, and I did bring you something... I brought you a gin perfume?" I chuckle as the blurry recollections come to my mind. It was a last minute purchase at the mall gift shop, and I didn't bother to test its scent before getting it wrapped. I had just assumed it to be some regular musky fragrance, like all those men's deodorants usually have. "I can't believe you are wearing this."

"I have grown accustomed to it now, and it makes me feel special, almost like I bathe in alcohol everyday," he flashes his signature goofy grin.

I can't help but bark a laugh and he gladly joins me. George always finds a way to justify my little mishaps, whether it makes sense or not. Not that I am complaining about it. I do love the earthiness of the gin, combined with the fruity notes, and just a hint of cinnamon tickling your taste buds... and, well, it does seem to suit him a lot. "You want to leave now?" He reluctantly steps away, but lazy fingers linger on my pulsating wrist.

I am eager to nod, stepping into the Challenger to rest my trembling legs, only vaguely aware of it and the heat scathing my thighs as images of her come back to me.

However, as I religiously gaze at the city landscape laden with tall sky scrapers blazing past us, a few pushed back thoughts come to mind too. I glance at George through the corner of my eye, reliving our memories in an impromptu slide show. Each one of them is pleasant, except for a few tainted ones in the middle.

No matter how many times I try to forget that night, it doesn't seem to go away. "Have you ever wanted to erase something off your mind?"

His head jerks in my direction before a visible awkwardness takes over his face. "Where did that come from?"

"Just off the top of my mind. Would you though?" I look at him intently, and he recognises the resolve behind my tone.

"Okay, let's see." His eyes are pinched, jaw tense, and I'm more than sure I've seen him make this face before a math test. "Nah, I don't think I have felt the need to erase something off my memory, and I honestly wouldn't want to. Whether I appreciate it or not, it will always be a part of my life, so, you know, what's the point anyway?" He shrugs, switching songs on the stereo.

His casual remarks get me thinking about it. I ideally cannot change or rectify whatever happened between us, no matter how much I want to. "But, do I really want to?"

"What?" He asks, making me realise I said that out loud. I turn all red, trying to come up with a reasonable explanation. "Nothing, I was just thinking if I really want to go into business after graduation." Where did that come from? 

"Your Dad's company? Gee, and I thought you would be a little creative," he clicks his teeth, soon letting his lips curve into a devious smirk.

I shoot him daggers while analysing it myself. "What's wrong about it? I know it's nothing out of the world, but neither am I."

"See, that's exactly where you're wrong," the deepening blue of his eyes bores into mine. "You like to be challenged, not to be put in a box where you are expected to do the same task everyday."

"So, I am supposed to do something adventurous? Hmm... I guess I could join a police force, that would be pretty cool." I mentally scoff at the idea of me joining the force someday.

"Why not?" He questions, while I am only able to purse my lips. He leaves it off for most of the ride, probably lost in his untamed imaginations. "I can totally picture you as a cop, and a pretty badass one, actually."

"Yeah, of course you can," I can't help my rolling eyes at the mere possibility. Leave it to George and his fantasies to turn you into Wonder Woman if necessary. But then again, I don't seem to mind.

He parks his car across the barren street of my house, which isn't a sore sight for me today. Both of us turn in our seats, the uncomfortable squirming and Queen on the radio filling in the silence. "Take care, Emma. You know I'm always there for you, and if you need me, you know where to look." A rather innocent playfulness gleams in his eyes.

"I know better than anyone," I proudly smirk. He doesn't respond back, just drives away once I catch the profuse blush on his cheeks.

The lantern solely hung by a rusty hook lights up our porch, attracting along a bunch of fireflies amidst the onset of the night. Home sweet home. I'd never in my wildest dreams thought I would feel such relief at coming home at the end of the day, but things have changed quite a bit– visibly. The cobble stone path I'm walking on now, was previously where I sneaked through to get out and to another random party across town with Kylie.

Kylie. I despise the foreign feeling settling in the pit of my stomach at her mention, but it's true that none of us has uttered a word about her disappearance in a while now. I get why Archie's got this mouth shut, but George is no where near fazed about her absence. Either he's got too much faith in Mia's road trip theory or denial is his strong suit. Judging by his breeziness and how he still can be oblivious about our little stint, which I witnessed first hand today, the latter seems likely.

I enter the house, dump my keys in a crystal bowl sitting on the cabinet in the hallway, and slip into my bunny slippers by the foot of the same. Both, the antique and my slippers seem to have been there since the bricks of the house were assembled together.

I am quick to turn at the foot of the stairs, paying little to no attention to the pushed curtains between the living room and the foyer. Not until muffled sobs make their way past the sheer fabric and all the way to my ears. Frozen in the midst of a step, I'm set to panic because I know Dad isn't supposed to come before ten, and if it were otherwise, he would have definitely informed me. Fuck.

The sobs grow louder with the ticking of the clock, matching the awry rhythm of my rising heartbeats. I fiddle with my phone, almost pressing 911, when a familiar voice makes me back out of it. "It will be alright, Sarah. I am sure Emma would know something in regards to her whereabouts." My dad's deep rooted Canadian accent makes me calm and puts me in a state of unrest all at the same time.

Who is he talking to?

I gulp, taking calculated steps towards the source of the hushed chatter. I stay prepared to be greeted by Dad, but the guest alongside him manages to make the floor slip beneath my already unsteady feet. "Mrs. Meyers?" I mumble under my breath, out of force of habit. She's sitting on our couch, her head resting on my Dad's chest while he comforts her.

"I don't know, James, she hasn't picked up any of my calls, her dorm room is empty. I am worried sick for her," she cries out loud, mascara stained tears dripping down her face.

"You need to be brave, Sarah, I know you are," he tries to console her.

"Dad?" I call him out in a shaky voice. He almost springs off the corduroy sofa, the colour of his face wearing off while I try to make sense of the sight. On the other hand, Sarah doesn't seem to acknowledge me at all.

I blink several times, amazed at the sudden changes in her appearance. She is wearing a fitted black dress, which blends with the similar hues of her permed hair and puts a rather thick veil over her mid life crisis— part of the reason, obviously being the numerous surgical treatments visible on her stretched out skin. Subtle features are now sharp, appearing pretentious as compared to her warm personality.

Dad immediately pulls away from her, an embarrassing look etched over his face. He scrambles away from the couch and adjusts the loose folds of his tie before coming over to me. "Emma, I know you must be confused about this."

"Are you dating Kylie's mom?" I frown at the bare thought of the two of them posing in our annual family portrait. It is an age old tradition, the extended family on my Dad's side seems to be fond of.

"I-I did not intend for you to find out in such a manner, but she was worried about Kylie's absence and showed up unannounced."

That's the first time I've heard him stutter, so it really can't be any good. I try to answer him back, but am myself at a loss of words. How am I even supposed to comprehend this? I have never had a clue about my Dad's dating life, and I never felt the need to know. Not as long as he kept the dates away from our house and didn't bother me with what stuffy suit he should wear to another one of those seven star hotels. Now that I am having my first encounter with one, she turns out to be my childhood friend's mother.

"Emma," she flickers her swollen eyes to take note of our little argument, and comes rushing towards me before I can react to it. "Emma, I need to talk to you." Her gem stone clad fingers grab my shoulders. "Where is my daughter? She is not taking my calls, she has not been attending her college classes. Did something happen?"

She stares at me with wide eyes, demanding answers I know of, but don't have the courage to spill. I sense her grip tightening around my arms, and can't but feel trapped–the abundance of air around slowly fading away to leave me breathless. "I... I last met Kylie some three weeks ago, at this party in Greenwich Village," I formulate the words as they come to me.

"Whose party was it? Was the host friends with you and Kylie?" She questions, while bare minimum suspicion broods in her glassy eyes.

"No, but I remember the guy she was with," I mutter with a straight face, even though all I recollect is, that she was hooking up with some blonde guy I had never seen before. I didn't even catch a glimpse of his face, except for the shiny chain around his neck and...

"Brandon."