Chapter Text
9:28 PM
I don't care.
He said it to himself a million times, slumped on that bathroom floor.
"I don't care ." He was shaking, hands curled into the mat on the bathroom floor. He didn't care. He definitely didn't care. Sure, he'd called him a loser and shoved him and just abandoned him but he didn't care, he did not care.
I need to get out of here.
He couldn't breathe, he was taking in short gasps of air. God, he was a mess. Had he locked the door? Fuck, he hadn't locked the door. He should've locked the door. He couldn't stand up. He stared at the door, as if he were trying to will it to lock of its own accord. One shaky hand planted itself on the seat of the toilet, pushing up. He stood on trembling legs, his hands on the sink to hold himself steady.
He stared into the mirror, furrowing his eyebrows. Before he realized what he was doing, there were glass shards falling into the sink, onto the counter, onto the floor. He nearly collapsed again, one hand grasping a shard of glass, the sharp edge against his hand - it would be so easy to slice his hand open.
No, someplace easier to hide.
Into his arm - over, and over, and over. Lines of thin cuts. He watched the blood slowly drip down his arm, dazed.
Knock-knock, knock-knock.
It snapped him out of his trance. He threw the glass shard to the ground - one bloodstained piece among the rest. "Occupied!" He yelled, his voice choked up and high pitched.
Silence.
He could hear the music through the floor - it was insane down there. He had to get out. He had to sneak out. He glanced out the window - too high up. His breathing sped up, he didn't have enough space. It was too crowded.
He opened the door with some trouble, ignoring how there was blood beginning to stain his sweatshirt. He just wanted out. He would've just sprinted, but that would involve going through the crowd - and maybe seeing him again. He didn't want to see him. He wasn't even sure if his friend was in there anymore. Maybe it was all the squip.
He didn't like that idea.
He hurried, looking for a way out from upstairs. The majority of people were in the living room - he could sneak into the kitchen and leave through the door there. Good plan.
His heart was pounding and he was shaking, one hand gripping the handrail of the stairs so tightly his knuckles turned white. He sped up, practically leaping off the stairs and rushing into the kitchen. Empty. For now. He had to get out, he had to get out. He struggled with the door for a moment with his bloody hand, but it opened and he bolted into the crisp, cool night air. He took a moment to breathe, this was much better than inside the house.
He wanted to get home. The walk wasn't far. He could do it. He might stumble a few times, but he could do it.