Good Girls Go Bad // smut

shattered glass // marcel

credit: littlebitofharry 

I can still hear their slurred insults making a home in my head as I finally unlock my front door, pulling my best friend and LA’s newest rebel, Marcel, in along with me.

"Go sit down while I get something to clean you up with." Sighing, I drop my purse by the door before making my way to the bathroom, regret weighing heavily on my mind.

At the time I thought that it would be a good idea to take Marcel out on the town for once in his life, especially after the horrible way One Direction literally hit him over the head with the project he spent months preparing for. He only agreed to go to my favorite bar after I convinced him it would be fun, but it proved to be quite the opposite very quickly.

Not only did Marcel almost vomit after taking his first and only drink of the night, a shot of Patron, but seconds later we were approached by my drunk ex-boyfriend and his band of asshole friends. I’m not sure if it was the minute amount of alcohol he wasn’t used to or the fact that his day had been ridiculously awful already, but after my ex and his group called me every name in the book (and then some) when I refused his advances, out of nowhere Marcel took a poorly-aimed swing at the man who then retaliated with much better accuracy.

"And don’t you even think about calling your mom and telling her what happened, Marcel! You know how our mothers gossip and mine does not need to know about this," I yell behind me as I grab a washcloth from the cupboard and begin to soak it in the sink.

I avoid looking into the mirror as the hot liquid runs over my hands, drenching the towel but failing to wash away the feeling of worthlessness that is starting to consume me again. I don’t want to see if my new lipstick really does make me look like the ‘whore that I am and always will be’, or if my dress shows off all the weight I apparently gained by being the ‘cumdumpster for every piece of trash in California’.

I’m terrified of seeing my reflection and being faced with the crushing reality that I’m truly not worth loving, and that I’m not enough for anything or anyone. I refuse to lock eyes with the girl in the mirror because I know if I do, her glass heart won’t just be cracked anymore; it will shatter completely.

I’m pulled from my thoughts when I hear a loud sneeze echo through my studio apartment, and I hastily turn off the sink and rush to the main room, praying that I won’t get there to find blood sprayed unceremoniously all over my futon.

If I wasn’t so angry with Marcel after nearly getting the shit beaten out of him trying to defend me against someone who he knows he’s no match against, I might be laughing at the tell-tale white string now hanging from his nose.

"Is that what I think it is?"

"I retrieved it from your purse when it started bleeding again," he says from where he sits on the edge of my bed, his eyes squinting in my direction as he attempts to crack a smile. “Kind of reminds you of high school, doesn’t it?"

"Not quite. In high school you got bloody noses from opening your locker too fast and whacking yourself in the face. Back then you were smart enough to stay away from jerks, not try and get yourself killed by them." I reply haughtily as I walk over to him, but my stomach drops when I see just how messed up he really looks now that we’re out of the darkness of the night.

Marcel’s usually immaculately gelled hair is falling messily into his sea-green eyes while his one pair of glasses rest in his lap, the frames almost cracked in half from where he was punched. His sweater vest and white dress shirt that he bought specifically for the meeting today are splattered with crimson, but he doesn’t seem that bothered. When I sit down next to him I can tell he’s more concerned about me than his soiled clothes, destroyed property, and his bloodied face.