Throughout the entire ride, Morgan and Paige have yet to exchange a single word. The drive itself, him behind the wheel and her sitting in the passenger seat, reminds her of when he drove her to Kira's just yesterday. As the car eases to a stop on the side of the street, she turns to gaze out the window at her house. What's left of the broken shutters that once covered her bedroom windows sway in the heavy wind.

Despite the fact that his douche meter was elevated past the charts, Morgan was the only boyfriend—or person really—she had ever given her real address to. It wasn't because she was in love with him but more so that deep down, past the macho persona, she knew that he was a trustworthy person. Until the night of the accident shattered whatever positive perceptions she had of him.

"Let me walk you inside." He breaks the silence as he reaches for the door handle.

"No." She says, still staring at the house for a brief moment before turning to face him with a fake smile. "No thank you. I'm okay."

With his hand still grazing against the handle, he looks at her with concern. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah." She nods as she opens her door. "Thanks, Morgan."

He smiles, although not sure of whether or not he wants to leave her alone at this point. The entire day she seemed like she was running on autopilot, her mind still hazy from the aftermath of what she saw. He watches as she exits the car and swings the door shut before turning to walk up the sidewalk to her porch, and even waits a minute or so after she steps inside her house, before shifting the car gear back into drive.

Closing the front door, Paige doesn't care to lock it. Her mind is elsewhere. She takes two steps and finds herself standing at the narrow entrance to the small den, her mother's back facing her from the ragged recliner she sits stiffly in. She stares blankly forward at the older television set that flashes in her dull eyes.

"I'm home." Paige says, her eyes beginning to water. This place is a lot of things, but it sure as hell isn't a home. "Mom?"

Her mother doesn't flinch. A coffee table is pulled up to her knees, one of its uneven legs propped up on a folded piece of newspaper. On top of it rests a nearly empty bottle of cheap gin.

Paige leans against the corner of the wall, whimpering. "Mom, I really need someone to talk to right now. Can you please, just this once, give a shit!"

Shaking, her mother's hand reaches out like a claw to grab the remote from the coffee table. She aims it at the television and, for one brief moment, Paige thinks that maybe she'll turn it off and talk to her. But instead she presses a button to increase the volume, drowning out her daughter's voice.

"Mom!" Paige begs one last time, feeling a tear fall to her cheek. She wipes at it, hurriedly turning around to walk away as she realizes there is no point.

In the short hallway leading to her room, she stops at the first door on the left to enter the bathroom and slams it shut behind her. Leaning against the door, she wipes at her eyes as she glares up at the ceiling to stop from crying further.

Regaining herself, she steps toward the bathtub and twists the two knobs near the rusted spout. Water spits out until the pipe unclogs, water pouring steadily onto the porcelain shell of the tub. She swipes her hand through the running water to make sure it's warm before pulling the small lever to close the drain.

Standing back up, she pulls her shirt over her head, eager to get the filthy thing off of her, and tosses it on the floor near the door. She unbuttons her jeans and, as she pulls each leg out through the pant legs, she looks down at the dozen or so scars covering her upper thighs. Most are from precise, horizontal cuts although a few of them—the more recent ones actually—appear more sloppy and jagged.

Lifting her head, she glares at the person staring back at her in the mirror. Who is she? How has she made it this far?

Reaching up, she grabs the ledge of the mirror and pulls it open to reveal a small cabinet behind it. She grabs one of the many medicine containers, all prescriptions for her mother, cluttered on the top shelf and shuts the mirror.

She reads the label, making sure it is her mother's anti-depressant pills, before twisting the lid off the container. She pours a couple of the white capsules in her hand and finds herself staring at them. She's been taking them ever since the accident and it helped her distant herself, disconnect from the world to the point of no longer caring about anything or anyone. Including herself.

Then she met Kira for who she really was. And, just like that, she had a new drug.

Screaming angrily, she tosses the pills and the container at the floor, capsules scattering across the cracked tiles beneath her feet. She grabs the mirror again, which is now fogged from the steam, pulling it so fast it nearly rips from the hinges holding it to the cabinet. She snatches a small jewelry box from inside and sets it on the counter near the sink, opening it to take out a sharpened razor blade.

Already familiar with the process, she quickly props her leg up on the toilet lid and holds the tip of the blade to her upper thigh underneath the lowest scar. For her cutting is a therapeutic process, a way for her to release her emotions without talking. Not like she's ever had anybody to talk to anyway. She sees it like a tally chart, each mark representing a time her heart has been broken.

Blood emerges as the blade pierces her skin with ease but she quickly pulls it away as tears again fill her eyes, not from the pain but more from her thoughts. Setting the razor on the edge of the tub, she sees that the water has now risen past halfway inside of it. She stands up straight and, with her undergarments still on, she steps into the tub.

She slowly sinks into the warm water, allowing it to continue to run as she rests her hands on the side of the tub. Reaching over the ledge, she grabs her pant leg and pulls her jeans in close. She digs her phone out from the back pocket and holds it in front of her, opening her text messages. Getting a brief glimpse of the last texts exchanged between her and Kira, and the ones sent from the killer in disguise, she scrolls past them to click on Morgan's picture. She starts to type a message.

'I can't do this anymore. I just can't. What we did was bad enough but now... everything that is happening is because of us. We have to pay for our sins.'

With her thumb hovering over the 'Send' button, she stares at the screen as she rereads the message to herself. Her finger swifts over to another button, deleting it, and she begins to type again. This time she replaces it with one simple word.

'Sorry.'

She sets her phone down on the side of the tub and reaches past it to grab the razor blade.

Without hesitation, she presses it at an angle against her left wrist and slices downward. The vertical, jagged cut quickly oozes blood down her arm to her elbows and dilutes as it touches the water.

Paige stares blankly at the gash before switching the blade to her left hand, which is now trembling, and reaches over to deeply cut into her right wrist. As blood drips from both of her wrists it sends small, rose-colored ripples dispersing through the water.

The razor blade drops to the bottom of the tub as she lays back, letting her arms soak into the warm water as the blood flows around her body. The blush tint of the water grows darker with each passing second, steam filling the small room like a thin cloud of fog. She ignores the stinging in her arms, which doesn't last all that long. A tingling sensation kicks in as her arms grow numb, the lights above her beginning to dim.

As the water rises to the edge of the tub, she lays her head back and her eyes slowly draw shut.

♫ ʜᴇʏ ɴᴏᴡ / ᴀᴜɢᴜsᴛᴀɴᴀ ♫