This is probably the first in my life that I am feeling dizzy without the support of a hefty amount of something particularly intended to draw me out of my agony circling between the hell I've myself bricked alongside my once supposed friends.

Looking down at the creaky stairs leading to the heck house reminds me of the thunderstorm rolling past that damned night when I found myself drenched in rain and obsession, such that my eyes turned blind to what I was doing. I could have been her saviour, but instead I decided to prove a point I have been begging for people to hear all along. Even when I got played, all I wanted to do was shove competition out of the league. Now that I have done the damage, I realise it was all in futility, that Archie and I are just a hazardous combination of crack and vodka which although might feel good at the moment, benefits no one in the long run.

Whatever it maybe, I need to face this. My hands reflexively pull the denim jacket closer to my chest as I walk down the termite stricken basement of Arlington. Each step acts like the play button of a cassette player– screening a hazy film of the horrors I committed that night, beginning with Kylie was slumped on my shoulders whilst the rest of my intoxicated body struggled to keep balance on the chipped off wood. I could feel her hollow breaths on my neck... chillier than they could ever be. The wound on her head stained my curls and conscience at the same time, both of which I realised too late to get rid of completely.

I walk over to the same spot I halted at, back then. The rocking chair is intact in its place, wrapped up in the same ropes that engulfed her lifeless body. The dust filled air, the wood shavings, the fingerprints on the window, the muddy impressions of my shoes, and even the violet strands of her hair... the entire place looks like a three dimensional photograph of that night, except it's one missing element, one that was the most important out of everything disheveled and rotting in here. Kylie.

After whatever happened at Daniel's, to claim that I was enraged, would be undermining my pointed gaze at her and the thoughts awoke that in all cases led to something catastrophic and me in the centre of it all. That bet was motivation enough to push me over the ledge. My head was swarming in a land overcrowded with butterflies, and my feet were covered in blisters by the time I reached the spot. I vaguely remembered Kylie telling me that she's got a hiding spot in the Arlington Woods, a secluded place she goes to clear her head, apparently. I attempted a hand at the same until my gaze caught upon the drama brewing between Blossom and Bubbles.

I could barely hear their argument, but I sensed some tension between the loud voices and dead leaves flown my way by the wind. My tired ass was gladly watching them bicker, taking drags of a cheap cigarette when a thud like sound disrupted the peace. The cigarette fell off my lips, leaving my mouth to gape open at the image of Emma holding on to a blood stained tree log, and I had to muffle the gasps escaping my throat once I saw Kylie laying on the ground, beside our murderous Mary Poppins. My heart beat slow yet unregulated under the effect of the meds, quietly observing Emma panic her way into a lousy escape. I expected her to call 911 when she picked up her phone, except it was Kylie's. She shoved the cell in her clutch and fled from the scene.

I couldn't do the same. So I picked up the burnt cigarette and took hesitant steps towards Kylie—or rather her body. My shaky calves bent down to examine her unnerving stillness, slightly poking her with the burning end of the cigarette. Her lack of reaction made my heart thump back all the lost adrenaline and render the drugs useless... until she let out a moan. I flinched back at the sudden loss of silence, gulping as she attempted to move out of her wiry stance. She was too weak though, and went back to resembling a corpse within seconds.

I let go off the cigarette and folded my legs on top of each other, trying to get a grasp on the situation. Any empathy I felt earlier, had been replaced with agony as I recollected all the things she did to me. Whether it was purportedly sending me and Archie to the basement to a tied up Emma, or flashing that toothy grin when she won the fucking bet– her intentions were pure evil both the times and I wanted to get back at her anyhow, do something equally appalling. So I held her passed out body and took her to the only place I could think of, at the moment. The basement.

I brought her down here and tied her up to this very rocking chair, only to rant about all the terrible things she had done to me. I don't remember the whole speech, but it was pretty much a summarisation of my embedded need to make a fool out of myself in front of Archie. Once I was done letting out my frustration, I left the basement to try and locate the nearest source to my unbounded happiness and crash alike.

I conveniently forgot Kylie until the next evening, when I woke up from the haziness of my highs. Popping up an aspirin, I tried to remember the events of last night– the forest, the basement, and the images of her body eventually making me sick to my stomach and my own actions coming to bite me in a manner I didn't calculate. I dragged my worn out self to the university and searched every nook and corner of the campus ground, but she was nowhere to be seen.

I have been coming to this very spot since then. Since that night, in hopes of finding her passed out body somewhere in this junkyard. And I have miserably failed each time. I just don't get how she could've worn her way out, when there isn't a slightest chance she walked out on her two feet, unless someone held her and helped to. In fact, I often feel she is watching me, all of us go about wondering about her mysterious absence and facing the brunt while she is in all probability, laughing in a corner, licking on a cherry lollipop.

I hope it's true, because I am not capable of going any other way about this. My sober state is not ready to face what I was fearing that night in the forest. "Where are you, Kylie?" I push back tears whilst casting a gaze around once more. The worst part about all of this is, I can't let a word out even to self in confidence, fearing there might be another domino block waiting to fall and wreck someone in the dreary process.

Emma is tasked with keeping mum under Ms. Williams' constant shadow, Archie is booked all week with trips to police stations, and George... the worst of all. The incident at the tracks. Everyone came to know, but none of us dared visit him at the hospital. Not after we heard about the paralysis.

I can't imagine what he must be going through. Did he deserve it? I don't know, but what I do know is he eats and breathes lacrosse and anything else would be a step down from what he's having to pay for being one of us. The only sliver of good to come of everything was that Zack Morreti was sent behind the bars. Once again. How he managed to escape prison? Another mystery no one knows of, but is left open for conclusions. I can't seem to make anything out of it, but then again, from what I have heard of Moretti and the people he used to hang out with... anything is a possibility. And these are the exact words of a high school creep I once encountered post-game, supporting the former captain with a screechy whistle around his neck; him being supported by a ton others of his like, from some Valley school I don't exactly remember.

All in all, it's a roulette's table and no one sure of their fate anymore guided by forces we've willingly reckoned with. I get up from the stairs and slowly climb up, only to find that the weathered door isn't held ajar by that rock anymore. I push, I pull, yet nothing.

I frantically look around to find some way of escaping this dump. And all the while that I hunt, my body trembles like I have been given the task by a captor holding a gun to my head. Beyond the crap, the old furniture, the ugly sheets covering the old furniture... I fail to find a way out. The windows are blocked by an iron grill, so even if I break the spattered glass it would hardly do any good to me. Wish I'd thought this earlier when my knuckles weren't bleeding, and shards of glass weren't stuck in my pale skin.

It's dark out now, but I am still stuck with a bruise and a poor connection in my phone drained of its battery. My head buries itself in my knees as I try to keep the voices from haunting me like they do every other night. They are worse than nightmares with no scope for me to have a few hours of peaceful sleep before I wake up to the horrors of my life. Plus, watery eyes and feverish body have now become a part of this vicious cycle I brought upon myself. It's been three days since I ate anything, leaving aside that one line of coke I subjected myself to. I am not proud of it. In fact, I haven't been able to face Jake ever since. The guy has too much faith in that speck of white on the otherwise pitch black canvas, everyone thinks my life is. Good for him that I am done letting people down who try to turn my fate for the better.

I might not be able to hope for a life suckered out of this, but I can't ruin the hope his amber eyes look at me with.

"Mia?" The same comforting voice echoes in my head. I hesitantly look up to find him standing at a safe distance from my fragile posture. He is holding onto a couple of books to his chest, probably using them as a shield to keep his entomophobia under the wraps. Cute as always.

"Jake," I get up and fix my shabby attire, whilst pasting a smile on my worn out face.

"What are you doing here?" His confusion is visible beyond his thick rimmed glasses.

"I... I thought I heard someone in here, but look who was wrong," I attempt an eye roll to keep his doubts at bay. "How did you know I was here?"

"I got a voicemail from you," he chuckles while waving his phone at me. "You should be careful around here. This place looks horrid as is." He looks around at the mess I have created in the past three hours.

"Definitely," I gasp, following him outside to breathe in the untainted air. I am never making the mistake of coming anywhere near this door for the rest of my life.

"I am going to the DAA meeting, you want to accompany me?"

"Do I have a choice?" I break into a laugh, and so does he. "Let me just get some stuff from my locker," I run up to the main building in a haste.

As I walk through the barely lit hallway, my gaze inevitably halts at her locker. More so, because its door is on the verge of falling off the hinges yet again. After everything I have been through, even the sense of a déjà vu is lost on my tired mind.

I pull out the broken door and come across a bunch of stuff in the locker. I was under the impression that the authorities handed it all over to her parents, when the note was found in here. Is this really her stuff, though? A blush palette, a pair of transparent bra straps, a pouch full of assorted ribbons, a copy of bail papers addressed to... Zack Morreti. And a bunch of keys that have a white label taped to them. Basement.

My heart sinks as I read out the scribble, but that's not even the worst clue in there. I reluctantly pick up the newspaper article cutout with yesterday's date printed on the top right corner, reading as– A sixteen year old boy suffering from post traumatic disorder has been reported missing since the past few days. His parents have correlated his disorder to an incident back in the month of June, when he was bullied by a couple of kids in an exorbitant club in Manhattan. The family had since been making frequent appointments to the therapist, and the boy seemed to cope well with the aftermath, until he went missing on the gone Saturday. While the police is doing the necessary investigation, it is indeed amusing that this case has come to light after a similar case of a missing student has been reported from one of the most reputed universities of New York.

Arlington University has consistently been in the news since the past month, owing to the now well known, Kylie Meyers missing case. It might be a mere speculation, but the parents of the missing boy are claiming that their son was bullied by certain kids, studying in the controversial campus of Arlington. Meanwhile, the missing boy is a sophomore at DixonValley high school. This unlikely connection between the two cases might be a clue for the NYPD.

The cutout slips off my hand and lands back on the cold metal, flipped off to the other side of the paper. "A.L," I read out the sloppy initials, drawn all over the fine print of the newspaper.

My parched lips repeat the highlighted words in the article, processing the information as I stand shaken in front of the broken locker. I keep going over the last paragraph in an endless loop, until a whiff of burning wood overpowers my swollen nostrils. I walk over to the end of the corridor to find a trail of smoke slipping out of the enclosed basement. The grey clouds continue to contaminate the air, and gradually make my eyes water down to a blur of nothing.

"No... no, this cannot happen," I sprint down the stairs once it hits me like a boulder. My feet go about with an unusual pace, until I am pulled back by a pair of arms withholding onto my urge to run into the blazing confines of the basement. I try to let go off the grip, but end up surrendering into it as a wave of tears splashes down my cheeks.

Even as my head is buried under the crook of his neck, I manage to spot the fire department carrying out the body on a stretcher. Kylie's dead body.