WARNING: This chapter contains swearing and abuse. Read at your own risk.

Mia's P.O.V

Thursday.

I am working at a nightclub on Thursday.

I didn't have a say. I still don't.

Aunt Lisa said we needed the money. She said our bills won't wait for me to return to work next month. She said I was just going to sing. She said nothing wrong would happen. She said, and through it all, I just nodded. I can't fight with her or any crazy girlfriend or any pervert or anybody again. I'm tired of this.

Screw it; let's sing or whatever.

On Thursday, I find myself hyperventilating for no reason, like during the calculus test yesterday. That one was so sudden that Noah got scared and gave me his answers, thinking I had test anxiety.

"-Mia."

"Hey, Mia!"

"Earth to Mia!!"

"Huh?" I snap out of staring at the hour hand to meet hazelnut eyes.

"Congratulations on your test score," Noah motions to the 98% on the sheet between my fingers. I clear my throat, "urr... Thanks?"

"Urr... Welcome?" He mimics me, resulting in me returning the smile.. or trying to.

"You ok?" He tips his head sideways in concern.

"Mhmm. Thanks for helping me cheat," I chuckle, so he stops looking at me like a lost puppy. He turns to Mrs Peters, who is marking our homework, then muses,

"You didn't submit yours the last time."

"Ya, like probably half of the class." There is a brief pause.

"You hid in the washroom too long."

"If I didn't know better, I would say you are obsessed with me."

"Huh, in your dreams," he replies, clicking his tongue, "I'm just a concerned citizen. You keep looking worse than shit every day, so I was curious. Aren't you friends with Casey? Surely you should have some concealer if you hang with her crowd."

"Isn't Mrs Peters reading your assignment?" My head sways in her direction. Fortunately, that veers his attention to the teacher as she closes the last book and massages her temples.

"Na, what I wrote is better than whatever is giving her a headache," his smile wavers a bit. The woman stands.

"Tomorrow, you are all going to read your poems and maybe convince me not to quit my job, ok?" She grunts to no one in particular.

"Yes, Mrs Peters," we match her lack of enthusiasm.

"Good, now disappear." Everyone does gladly.

I don't make it past the door when Casey appears, panting. Before I can even accustom myself to her hand on my shoulder, she smiles. "Hey, you. Let's go. "

"Go where?"

"I don't know, just come with me."

When my frown deepens, she slides her hand under my elbow and pouts. " I am trying to make it up to you for what happened with Harry. I should have stood up for you, but I didn't know what happened until Jeremy told me."

"That's fine, and you don't have to make it up to me," I mutter appreciatively, but she relents. Somehow, she lures me to the pool, where her friends leave puddles as footsteps towards us.

She hops to them, after muttering that I should wait for the coach. That's when the favour she's trying to offer me starts registering. I humour her by sitting on the bench as their training begins, knowing that her plan won't work anyway.

When Casey finally introduces me to the coach, she encourages me to come again and even mentions a boot camp I know I can't join. I lie that I will come tomorrow and everyone cheers for me.

Leaving the pool area and climbing down the stairs to the school's entrance, Casey tries offering me a lift, but I reject it when, out of nowhere, someone bumps into me from behind. A shrill, deafening pain shoots up my swollen side as it smacks the railing, my arm immediately lunging for Casey. She catches me before I collide with a stair, saving me from a precarious encounter with multiple levels of concrete.

"That was close," she says before blasting, "who was that?!"

"It's fine." I reel back from the impact.
She asks me where it hurts, and I point to my side. Letting me lean on her, she throws my arm over her shoulder. I feel a foreign hand reach for the other arm, so I unglue it from my throbbing ribs, only to have to snap once I meet his concerned gaze,

"Wait - Don't touch me."

" I'm trying to help -"

"- I said, don't touch me."

"Harry, stop." Casey comes to my rescue, waving her free arm to separate us. He scrunches his brow at her, but she props me up and down a few steps away, ignoring him. When I look back, he is out of sight, only reappearing as we enter a corridor leading to the sick bay. I mentally shoot daggers at him, then turn to Casey, who is also now realising that he's still following us. He meets her glower with a sly smile before yanking out a roll of weed from his trouser pocket.

"Ok, how about this?" he says, " it can help quell the pain."

It's like he's forgotten he almost cost me my job. For the umpteenth time, I warn him to go away. Casey's brow twitches, but only for a millisecond as he opens the sick bay door for us. Since the stubborn douche is carrying our bags ( who allowed him?), he endures the scent of disinfectant and the hardness of an empty patient's bed with us. The nurse, who seems not to catch a break judging from the tense sniffs her crooked nose makes, assesses the swelling before she looks at me with a blunt squint.

"What happened?"

"She was bumped into," Casey replies, making the nurse smile at me.

"I'm talking to you, dear. What happened?"

Oh, some girls beat me up.

"I was bumped into."

Even Harry does not seem to believe this. The nurse sighs and tells them to leave. While I watch Casey's reflection stationing behind the door, the nurse applies ointment, and who knows what creams on my tummy.

I find no delight in limping out of there, let alone into Casey's car, but she says it is not a problem.

"Hey, wanna smoke?" she steers out of the parking lot with a joint appearing in one hand.

"Don't tell me it's Harry's." I groan as she hands me a lighter to help her out.

"It is." She takes a drag after I burn the butt of the joint. I fake-gag, and she exhales smoke, lifting one end of her mouth. "Don't pretend as if you've never done it."

"I haven't."

Her ponytail whips the air as she gapes at me. "Really, dude?!"

"Really." I chuckle at her astonishment. I get that a lot from teachers who concur that my occasionally dishevelled appearance and inability to speak mean I'm high.

"Anyway, " I say, veering off-topic, "you never told me what was up with you and Harry."

"Oh, that." Her tone turns nasal. "It's... you know."

"I don't know," I scoff, oblivious to her irritation. She shrugs at that and drives a little faster. I watch her inscrutable lip-puckering facial expression until realisation dawns on me.

"Seriously?!"

"Oh, come on," she huffs, bending an intersection, " it was nothing. I mean, I freaking stopped it the instant I realised I would be taking his virginity -"

"Woah, too much!!" I yelp, colour draining off my face, "I did not need to know that!"

"You asked," she retorts, amused. My jaw drops, but I am not too flabbergasted to realise she's right.

"Yeah, you're right. It's not my business," I mutter more to myself than her. Yet, as she puffs out again, I frown. Sure, it is none of my business, but his girlfriend...

"You know he has a girlfriend."

"Ya," she mumbles, "it's a dumb high school relationship. Nothing serious."

"Emotions involved can be serious. And if it wasn't, that's not an excuse," I counter.

She blinks at me. "I'm not saying what I did was right. I'm just saying it's not a big deal."

"And I'm saying it can be a big deal for someone." At this moment, I'm tempted to mention Autumn's obsessive, diabolical behaviour. I restrain myself to a stern look at Casey, who nods like a child being rebuked.
"Ok, fine. You're right."

"It's not about me being right. It's about doing the right thing -"

"Ok, I fucking get it!" she exclaims, hitting the steering wheel. I flinch, then, meeting her glassy wide-eyed gaze, recoil into the passenger seat.

"I... I'm sorry -"

I yank the joint off her fingers, shaking my head. "Just focus on the road."

An awkward silence sets in.

"At least don't let it go to waste," she rasps, her lips drawing a smirk gradually. I roll my eyes.

"Just so you know, if I do this, it's so that you get arrested for my death."

"Ok," she laughs. I place it between my pale fingers and suck on it. An ashy mist invades my buccal cavity, and I gulp, only to burst into a coughing fit.

"I'm not kidding." I give her the joint, still coughing. Her laughter ripples through the car as she turns left and sings, "Geez, don't you dare die on me."

"Maybe I should!" I roll the windows down, barfing. Little does she know that I mean it.

Her next drag makes a ranting mess of her - she closes the windows and blasts the air conditioner to my annoyance, then goes on and on about her experience with high school boyfriends and her breakups being the fault of their immature minds hence the need not to take anything to heart and whatnot while the drugs are only now kicking in my system.

When I slur, "You neeeeed therapy," she kisses my bruised wrist.

"And you neeeeed to get high more often."

*

"I knooow!!!" I squeal in delight, riding my bicycle at top speed. The rushing wind wonderfully inflates my soul and clothes, making me feel like a feather about to be blown away.

"Hey, you're about to crash-!" Someone shouts, but I'm too high to care.

Until-

"I said I know- AaAAW!!"

-I crash into a pile of boxes on our lawn.

"Mia?!!" A yell pierces my ear, and a good-looking Aunt Lisa stomps to me.

"What the fuck are you doing?!!" She fumes.

"Well, well, I was with my friend," I slur," and she drop-dropped me off there so that I can sneak up on the flowers and water them, my sweet Lisa-"

"-Huh?-" she's caught off guard by my goofy laughter. Feeling proud of my definitely mature explanation, I stand on my tip toes and pull her cheeks,

"-and cursing is a no-no, aunty, so never say fuck.. or else ..the flowers will fucking kill you." Unfortunately, she doesn't share my amusement.

"YOU-" she grabs my hair harshly.

"BLOODY", and drags me into the house.

"LIABILITY!!" then starts kicking me frantically. I recoil, backing away from her when she shoves me inside, my back smacking the door hinge. I yelp immediately, causing her to freeze.

"Elisabeth? Are you there?" Andrés' voice cascades upon us. My foster mother staggers away from me, her eyes bulging like mine.

She coughs back her surprise, then masks it with a squeaky, 'yes!' before climbing upstairs, all while gawking at me. I release my breath upon hearing her bedroom closing. I stay still for ten good seconds, focusing on regulating my breathing - in case inhaling too deeply will exacerbate the pain. When that's done, I lift my shirt and gag.

I think I am sober now.

*

After much squirming and grunting, I make it to my room, where I doze off. When I awake, I pack my stuff for the night. Then, - recollecting what Lisa did while putting tattoo stickers on the bluish bruises - I include the revolver.

"You will be fine," I assure myself and await the leathery interior of Andrès' black Porsche Cayenne while keeping up the habit of finger-stabbing the blotches underneath my grey hoodie. They do not keep me waiting for long. Aunt Lisa waltzes down first with a look that cautions, "You better not mess this up."

Then Andrès comes acting like we are going for a family celebration. With my back and belly still aching, I force my walk to match his enthusiasm as he opens the car door for us.

"You brought your homework along?" he motions to the school bag beside me in the back seat. I nod, impassive. On the way, I catch him staring from the rearview mirror. He looks away, quickly turning to Aunt.

She steals a quick, nonchalant glance at me, too, then chuckles,

"Teenagers, right?"

In no time, we arrive at his packed nightclub in the city. There's a burst of colours, noise and lights everywhere, so much that I am glad the brick red storey building with neon lights screaming "All Night" is the final destination.

A stout, bald man in a suit and tie strides towards us. He opens the door for me with a startling velocity.

Andrès promises to come for me later and speeds away. My heart thuds as I am left alone with the stranger. The man does not do anything to ease my nerves. He marches onwards, expecting me to catch up with his long strides through crowds of more strangers in black suits.

"Here," he stops at the door with the inscription 'dressing room' after we take the elevator to the third floor," is where I leave you."

I stand in his way. "Didn't Andrès tell you to take care of me?"

"Exactly. He didn't say I should become your shadow."

The door opens. A pair of cloudy eyes squint at me, ane then  light up at the sight of the man. Their owner, a hot slender blonde in black stockings and a beige fur coat, shares a word or two with him in Italian whispers before she beckons me.

I hold my breath as we pass by more pretty much naked curvy women doing their make-up, sniffing drugs, and gossiping.

"Yo bitches, Walmart Ariana Grande is here!" someone hollers, sparking attention to us. I gulp.

"Really, Loré? A school girl?" A redhead eyes my school bag. Immediately, I clutch it.

Loré (the one I am following, apparently) ignores her. She makes me wear a strapless maroon bodycon above the lower thigh paired with skyscraper-high stilettos.
"Walk," she orders. I wobble to a bent knee pose. The others guffaw. A nearby pair of wedges as a replacement saves me from further embarrassment. I hug my inept legs to obscure bare bruises while Loré talks about songs which Aunt Lisa only allowed me to use her phone to learn. To the world, they are love songs, but to me, they symbolise anxiety, indignation, hope and fear, an epitome of when grief wars against reason.

"Mind singing a line, cutie pie," a friendly lady rises to ease the awkward silence. I almost forget to hide instant rage when others cheer with approval. As feared, my voice sounds squeaky at first, but eventually, I get to the chorus - they don't stop me, to my dismay- and it sounds fine enough for some to applaud.

A few minutes later, they all evacuate. Left behind, I release the breath I was holding the whole time.

"What now?" I think. A sliver of gallantry propels me to the door, but as it turns out to be locked, my heart starts pounding. My mind races through feasible scenarios of what may happen next. I have to assure myself I will be fine severally to be able to remember the pocket knife in my bag. I stab the keyhole, frantically twisting the handle.
"C'mon," my teeth grit as my fingers redden. It doesn't work. Frustration sets in as I rummage through make-up sets, clothing on racks, wardrobes and drawers for anything that may work.

Suddenly the hinges creak, and the door clicks. Immediately, I close the drawers. Loré appears.

"Let's go," she spares me no glance, retreating. I follow her without a word as she marches, her eyes fixed straight ahead. We enter a room pulsating with loud music and the stench of alcohol permeating the crowded space. Bodies press tightly against each other, and I struggle to keep up with her as they come my way, dancing chaotically. Between flashing lights, I catch glimpses of the sticking neon-lit floor tiles stained from spell drinks. My nose twitches at the overpowering smell.

"You will be here," she motions towards the small stage set up with drums, a piano and bass guitars. Then she pulls back the curtains behind us to reveal a corridor. Leading me through it, we enter another room, quieter than the first, mainly sheltering men ogling pole dancers.

"This is where the real money is," she says as if I should be praying to end up here soon. Uncomfortable, I am trying to avert my gaze from all the nudity when a back hunched over a glass of some drink grabs my attention. He guzzles it, and my eyes widen.

Oswald.