ʜ ᴏ ʟ ʏ

53.

The girl leered forward, jittering over the edge of the porcelain sink lathered with crimson droplets in her grasp, eyes sealed tight in hopes of abandoning the violent flare and ache of the light above. Fuck was this feeling unpleasant. Marceline couldn't help but wish she didn't overdo it at this very moment. One horrific muse about Ash in the alley was all it took for her moral compass to disintegrate and the familiar itch of her needs to succumb to the drug beneath her and god had she wish she hadn't. Though her tolerance had been built through recreational use, on an empty stomach she was no match for the powder. "Fuck," Marceline rasped, her free hand clutching at the leak that dared to traverse down her face and soak into the hem of her sweater. Of course her body had to act against her one of the few days she was in public. Even under the circumstances in which she was out, Marceline found it pleasant to be somewhere that wasn't Darrens or her bandmates home, even if it was just some shitty bar bathroom, which at the moment was odd considering Darren limited their work to his house or the corner. She brushed it off. It's not like his behavior had been anything but weird the past few days. Countless missed phone calls, no responses to her text, and no scheduling meetings between the two. If anything, Darren texting her out of the blue after ghosting her for a week was the least of her worries at the moment. Marceline cradled as much tissue paper as she could to her nose and cleaned it free of any remaining dried blood before pushing out of the dirty bathroom, easing into the dim lit bar just as her phone buzzed eagerly. "Outside," read the singular message from Darren. Marceline didn't bother typing a reply as she sauntered through the fogs of smoke, the off putting glint of red that doused the bar momentarily blinding her. Easing through the exit she was greeted by the pitch black of night and the boy she'd grown to call her friend, his weight slumped against his 2004 Camry. "Hey," she mustered, sniffling into the sleeve of her jacket. She expected a reply, a sign that her mumble had been acknowledged, literally anything but a fist flying past her reflexes and right hooking her smack dab onto the edge of her cheekbone. Before she could even process the pain she was on the concrete, her knees betraying her and buckling under impact. Marceline held her cheek in awe, mouth agape and eyebrows lowered. "Darren what the fuck!?" She yelled, the pain in her cheek beginning to swelter. The boy above her only looked down without a slither of empathy laminating his eyes. "Don't 'what the fuck Darren' me Marceline, don't you dare," he snarled fist clenched at his side. He shakes off the ache in his hand, pacing the empty parking lot with rush. Marceline staggered to her feet, cheek in grasp, her hair disheveled and jacket hanging off a single shoulder. "You can't just ghost me for a week, text me out of the blue to meet you at some discrete shitty bar and punch me in the fucking face! What's your problem!?" The second the words left her mouth did the boy let loose any anger he was concealing. His face growing an intense shade of red and a prominent vein bulging from his neck, Darren entered her space. "What's my problem? Seriously Marceline? You got some serious balls asking me that. I got a gun tucked in my waist band, my mom sleeping at a motel six, oh yeah and I'm missing a fourth of drugs with no money to show for it!" The tension in the air thickened. Conjoined with the remnants of spittle erupted from Darrens tantrum , the beads of sweat that traversed her forehead and cheeks, merging within one another, gluing down any rouge hairs that dare cross the barriers of her face. Marceline wilted quietly. "I don't know what you're talking about," she sniffled, watching the boy ahead of  her stop his pace to meet her eye. Darren chuckled. Low and hearty, enough to send a shiver through her that wasn't drug induced. "For you to stand in front of me, look me in my eye and tell me you don't know what I'm talking about, tells me enough about you than you could ever tell me yourself. You know exactly what I'm talking about." Marceline simmered back at the boy who approached, her heart in her stomach. Before she had time to mutter out an excuse, even breathe the same air as the boy she had so wronged, a cool metal tip was pressed to her forehead. The alarm in her head rang wildly but she had nothing to show for it on the outside besides the tears that dared to whelm her eyes. "Tell me the truth or so help me god Marceline I won't hesitate to pull the trigger," he murmured, voice heavy with angst. At that she broke. "I did the drugs ok?! I knew it was bad, I knew what I was doing was wrong, I knew it was fucked up but I did it anyway! I just wanted to stop seeing him," she sobbed openly into the brisk air, her warm crys presenting in front of her in wisp of cool night air. "There's not money to show for it cause I didn't sell them, I didn't pay for them I just took them. I'm an addict... I need help I know.... Darren I'm so sorry," she whimpered, warm tears skidding down her cheeks and joining the blood that gathered at the hem of her shirt. "Sorry isn't gonna cut it Marceline. You knew the guy I was working for doesn't play around with this typa' shit, we're talking about a guy who cuts off fingers, is responsible for most of the plots at the cemetery, yet you did it anyway!" As if the consequences of her actions weren't weighing her down enough, the sheer amount of emotion, raw and empty trembling through Darrens voice tipped the barrel. Marceline buckled to her knees, eyes glued to the tear and spittle that gathered in a layer on the dusty concrete of the parking lot, the gun not leaving her temple. "Give me one good reason I shouldn't just hand you over to him myself, make you take the punishment that's rightfully yours. They'd pimp you out like the snow bunny you are, drugged out of your mind, pass you around between themselves until a word couldn't leave your mouth, until you were empty and so used up that no one on the street would even take you. Tell me Marceline why shouldn't I?" The gun was pressed harder into her temple. Not daring to meet his eye she spoke. "Bonnibel," she rasped lowly, "I may be the saddest excuse of a person to walk this earth but she's so much better than me... better than this place, and she deserves the world. I need her more than she needs me." For a long minute there was silence. Nothing but the subtle drawl of detached leaves scraping soundly against the ground, wind bustling through the desolate parking lot, the low bristle of music trickling from the inside of the bar intertwined with birds chirping. And then the sound of retreat, shoes slowly skidding the surface of the pavement until nothing dared join the chorus apart from the creak of a car door and the rev of an engine. "Don't ever let me see you again." And like that, Darren was gone, the brown coat of his Camry growing farther in the distance as Marceline gathered herself, still positioned on her knees. Fishing her hand into the pocket of her jeans, Marceline yanked up her phone dialing a number she was weary to indulge but memorized by heart. The first ring, second, third and fourth. "Hello? How'd you get this number?" "Dad," she sobbed, "I need help."