I have never been more uncomfortable in my entire life. The thought itself is nerve wracking, let alone the action.

Each time I am guided through the process, it takes away another piece in my body, which is willing to live. What feels even more troubling than experiencing it, is how these inhumane people try to console you. You can tell by the look on their faces, that they don't give a rat's ass about your fears.

I wish I could do the same. So once again, when the morning rolls, I pull my cardigan over my head, for the officer to grab on its wool and toss it on the metal trolley on the side. She turns its sleeves inside out to scan the fabric for contraband. Empty handed, as well as frustrated, she demands for my jeans. I comply, stripping myself in front of three perfect strangers. Once they are convinced of my cleanliness, and done frisking me multiple times, I once more become a free resident of the United States of America.

I think I am starting to understand the whole point of rehabilitation. It does such scary things to you, the idea of even trying to take drugs again, makes you shudder. The only bright side seems to be the view of the skyline from 14 floors atop, and not even a single babbling human in sight. I, for one, am definitely not laying my hands on those things again— specifically if there is a great chance of getting caught associated to it.

While I almost want to hurl at my reflection in the glass windows, the sunlight entering past, gives me the least access to the world outside. Revelling in the summery breeze is better than people visiting to sympathise and stare at me with their ugly gazes. To be precise, I am referring to my dear parents. They are smart enough to realise that it is more profitable to invest in a multinational company than on their junkie daughter. I hope I have inherited this rare trait from them.

"Alright, let's change," I mumble to the skeleton in the frame, dressed in the same faded blue as that of hospital scrubs. I zip open my bag to pull out the same denim shirt and a pair of boyfriend jeans; ones that I wore on my first day of Arlington. As I stand under the cold shower, the running water blends with my tears. Luckily, there isn't anyone here to possibly identify it. All the while during the process, I strictly avoid looking at the five by five mirror hung on the bathroom wall. Sometimes illusions are better to live in, than reality.

I then comb through my hair, feeling strands fall down with every swipe through the tangles. They don't even tie up in a ponytail anymore— most of the volume now lost. Apparently, when you try to tear your insides apart, it shows the consequences on the outside to reflect your efforts. The same goes for my shirt, which even though hangs on my bony figure, makes me feel warm.

My feet take me to my designated spot, and I lie down in anticipation of the day ahead of me.They don't even let me have a cellphone, because according to these smart asses, that would set the limit to my shady activities. If I really wanted to defy the rules, it would have happened quite long ago. I don't fear the people here, not in the least bit... but I am rather afraid to face someone outside.

"Hey!" the same, utterly cheerful voice calls out. My head jerks towards the door, wishing for it to be anyone but him. Although, when my eyes grasp on the light blonde spikes instead of fiery red, I let out a muffled sigh of disappointment masked under a breath of relief.

Jake is standing at the door— a nervous smile on his face and a bouquet of Chrysanthemums in his hands. He always looks a little nervous, or maybe, it's the thick rimmed glasses he dons. They aren't nerdy, though, but define the brown of his his eyes better. Before I can question my train of thoughts, he takes steady steps towards the seat next to my bed, but changes his course all of a sudden, sitting down on the mattress beside me. His smile only seems to be getting bigger, and I can't help but feel amused. "Are you on cocaine?"

"Nah, I have the natural knack of looking high all the time. It's called adjusting to your broke circumstances."

I snort a laugh, not even paying attention to the ever present pain in my arms as I do so. I turn so loud, one of the nurses has to come to my room, worried about my coke starved senses having another attack.

"I should be the one laughing at you, Ms. Denim on denim. Is it 'channel your inner nineties self' day in here?"

"If it were, you would definitely fit in, Cargo pants." I scoff at him, and he flushes in embarrassment.

I am glad he hasn't brought up the night of my seizure— him being one of the many spectators of my outing in the community. While I don't really value the opinions of our equally corrupt neighbours, I do care about what Jake thinks of me. Mostly because he is an ideal example of the people who would shy away from such sinister pleasures, and being validated by him, would make me feel a little better about my otherwise spiralling condition. Just a little.

"I can already tell how entertainment deprived you must be at this place. How about some video games?" He pulls out two portable play station consoles.

"Only if there's Super Mario... or else I am going to be very pissed at you."

"The 1980 Version," he proudly raises his hands in victory, and I stifle another laugh.

We then engage in some serious competition, which at some point also involves unprovoked leg kicking. Well, part of the reason also being that he spills a can of cold Pepsi on my shirt, and goes on to take a picture of me, all drenched and angry later. Also as it turns out, Jake is a very sore loser. I had to lose twice on purpose to hold up his crumbling spirits.

"So, this turned out to be a very productive day," he yawns and turns to his left to reveal a huge scar on his back— well visible through the thin fabric of his white t-shirt. It stretches diagonally across the width of his back, shaded in a spooky combination of azure and red. It takes me back to our last meeting when I noticed a gash on his cheek, but he was rather quick to stall it.

"Jake, how did you get hurt?" I ask, and he freezes in his spot, his hand reflexively pulling at the hem of his shirt.

"W– what? I did not get hurt," he chuckles until I strain the resoluteness of my face, not blinking at all. "Okay, I slipped on a piece of gum in the University," he sighs, as though, it will add authenticity to his crappy story. He can't even conjure up believable lies.

"Cut the crap, Jake. Something is going on with you."

"Nothing is, alright. And even if it is, I don't need to tell you everything about my life," he shouts, and I flinch back. The pain in my arm shoots once again.

I nod, accepting my mistake of bringing this up. He isn't someone who will budge so easily. It's no wonder that we get along so well. "You are right, I don't have to know," I manage a small smile.

"I am sorry," he murmurs, pulling his messy hair back. "I will see you tomorrow, I have to run some errands." And just like that, he straps onto his bag, adjusts the bouquet on the window, and trudges out of the room. He once looks back when almost out of the door. "Take care, Mia," he smiles the same nervous smile, and within a snap of my fingers, he is gone. I hear his stomping feet all along, until he is out of the corridor of the hospital.

I let some time pass by, before rising out of the bed and putting on my sneakers. I make sure to check the time, keeping a track of when I need to unwillingly return. My hands cautiously open the door as I scan for any staff members around. Deeming it to be safe, I walk towards the elevator at the far end of the corridor, and once in there, nothing poses a trouble to get out of the chlorine reeking building.

As soon as my nostrils grasp the fresh air, I take a minute to soak in the feeling. However, an alarm goes off in my head when I see Jake getting in a car. I rush behind, watching him drive away while I stand back like a fool.

I look around for a cab and settle for the cheapest for one I get. I instruct the driver to follow the black Honda ahead, and he gives me a very questionable look before agreeing to it. After thirty minutes or so, his car comes to a halt at the corner of a secluded street. I get off the cab at a distance, continuing to walk behind him. It's difficult to recognise the neighbourhood— tin shutters masked over small shops all along the way, coffee and hamburger delis with queues going up as long as two kilometres.

It goes without saying that the street stands out amongst the otherwise posh lanes of New York City. As if to confirm to my beliefs, I find the walls ahead covered with graffiti and a beer shop at every throw of a stone. I catch some shady looking guys stare at me, but I am too busy keeping up with Jake, to deal with them.

I wonder how many miles is he planning to walk, until he rapidly turns around at the entrance of a brick structure. My feet run behind, chasing him inside the building. The realisation of my surroundings sets in when I am dragged aside by a strong hand, gripping on the collar of my shirt. I spot a huge crowd next to me; all of their eyes glued in the same direction. I follow their gazes, only to let my jaw drop open.

A boxing rink. That isn't even the shocking part, though. It's Jake entering the ring, which makes my heart skip a beat or two, like it is regular business. He looks like a different person altogether— his glasses off and his eyes looking sharper than ever. The lights in the rink, all flashing on him at the same time, make his bruises more vivid, along with his sculpted body. He puts his gloves on, while someone keeps offering him a bottle of water.

I feel like my legs will crush under the weight of this revelation, so I continue to stumble until there is a space to sit down on. I watch another guy, probably Jake's opponent, enter the rink— the giant flexing his well built muscles as he does so. Both of them stand in the middle of the ring, indicating that the fight is about to begin.

I avert my eyes, unable to witness the beginning as my erratic heartbeats match with the loud cheering of the crowd. A thud like sound breaks their cheers, echoing throughout the stadium. I hesitantly look up to find his opponent lying on the ground in a curved ball.

However, he has a very fierce look while getting back up. He tries to take a hit at Jake, but miserably fails yet again. Jake continues this winning streak for quite a while, all going well until he turns sideways to face the crowd. His eyes fixate on me, the stark look on his face mellowing down to that of his spectacled self. "Jake!" I shout, warning him of the fists coming flying at him, dropping him to the ground.

A gasp runs through the whole crowd, while I facepalm upon witnessing his black eye. Before he can make another move, his opponent ruthlessly takes punches at his ribs, barely allowing Jake to defend himself. "Why isn't someone stopping this, he can die!" I yell out, garnering more attention than the boxers.

"This isn't a high school match, it's a street fight. Thousands of dollars are being placed on these players," a guy sitting next to me, whispers— lighting a rolled joint while the rest of the crowd goes haywire.

"So, like what, murder is legal here?" I raise my eyebrows, while he chuckles at my question.

"Let's just say that everything is legal within these four walls," he takes a drag, offering one to me as well. I shake my head in disgust, my gaze returning back to Jake. I can spot blood spilling out of his mouth, weakening my resolution to stay put. But something tugs at my hand, making me unwillingly sit back down. "You cannot do that," the smoker glares at me.

"Why? You have your money riding on this, too?" I spit, fuming with anger.

"Oh, I have bet something way more precious than cash... my gold chain," he heaves a sadistic sigh.

"I can't believe this," I murmur, reminiscing all those hints that were in front of me— his constant stalling every time I pushed about the scars, the way he made excuses.

"Me too," the smoker rejoices, while Jake gets beaten to bloody pulp. "Usually, Seven doesn't go for such battles, but apparently emotion makes you irrational and brave at the same time."

"What does Seven mean? Is Jake a regular participant in these fights?"

He looks at me warily. "No wonder you seem interested." I let that snide remark slip, urging him to continue further. "I won't say that he is a pro, but the boy has learnt a lot in just a span of two months. His earnings are more than what these losers sometimes take years to make. I guess it is indeed true, survival can be a beast of a motivation."

I hardly understand any of it. Especially, the part about survival being a motivation and what not. I want to delve further into this, but a loud groan from the ring diverts my attention. Jake is lying flat on the floor, and his eyes are beginning to develop a dangerous red hue.

"Enough is enough," I get up, inspite of the guy trying to stop me once again. He keeps murmuring something about the stakes and repercussions, but I couldn't care less about it. "I don't give a fuck!" I push him, aside, running towards the ring. Most of the crowd, including the guy beating Jake up, is now looking at me with a partly confused and partly angry expressions. Some people try to manhandle me, but Jake explains the situation to them.

He comes at the corner of the ring with a broken nose and a bloody lip. "Mia, what are you doing here?"

"I should be the one asking that question. What ever happened to nerd Jake?"

He groans frustratedly, "I cannot answer your questions right now, please leave. And don't argue about it."

"I won't leave unless you explain to me, why you have you signed up for a death wish," I cross my arms to my chest, indicating that I am as stubborn as he is.

All he does is, stare at me the way he did at the bee in his room, but I am not going anywhere without answers. "Fine. The reason I have come here to break my bones, is you, Mia."

I fumble for words at his accusation. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"You and your friends did something a year ago, with a girl in our University. And someone knows all about it."

"What?" I ask, trying to possibly recall any such thing. However, so many such incidences come to my mind that I don't know which one he is talking about. I have been going around bullying so many people, I can't even bother to keep a fucking count anymore. What's worse is, I can't even remember what I did to half of them in my drunken or drugged state.

"You locked up a girl in the basement of our University, trying to play a prank on her or something of that sort. But I suppose, you weren't aware that she was claustrophobic."

"And she fainted in there, so paramedics had to be called to take care of her," I reminisce the popular hit list, Emma and I had made together.

He nods, "do you know what happened to her, you know, after it went wrong?"

"No, I never heard from her... or saw her again for that matter." I worry as Jake shakes his head.

"She was three months pregnant, Mia, and she had a miscarriage because of the incident."

"Huh?" I stand shocked, taking note of the bizarre revelation. I didn't have the slightest idea about the miscarriage. After she left Arlington, rumours were passed around that she was pregnant, but I didn't pay much heed to them. It wasn't anything out of the blue— such rumours were regularly made up and blown out of proportion as they followed along the campus.

"What... who... how do you know about this?"

"He told me about it," Jake points to the guy, I was talking to, back in the stands.

A chill runs down my spine as I look at him once again. "Who is this guy?"