4am

two

*DAN'S POV*

My clammy hands were entagled in the plastic of the two bags I was holding. Why was I holding them? My throat felt like it was lined with smoke. I had smoked a lot. There was a lot of pain in different places on my body, and I couldn't even figure out where. Phil was mad. Phil never really got mad. He had slammed the door pretty hard, and the noise had hurt my head.

It was my fault he was mad. I should've stayed home, like Phil wanted me to. But if stayed home they might've come to the flat, and the last thing I wanted was for Phil to be involved in this. My head was screaming, telling me to get some sleep, but I couldn't. My knee's were weak and my hands reached out to the swirling environment around me, searching for any kind of support.

Suddenly, it hit me that Phil had just left. He was right, I was selfish. Where the fuck was he going? My mind started racing, trying to make sense of the fog and the physical pain. He wouldn't have gone looking for them, would he? He's not confrontational, never had been. My mind jogged back to when I'd first met him. Vulnerable, skinny, hurt. I shuddered as I remembered him like that. The thought brought back reality a bit, helping make more sense of this sick haze.

The sobering thought of the first time Phil and I met also made me realise how bad my arm was hurting. The pain started at my inner elbow and engulfed my arm all the way up to my wrist. As I thought about it more the pain deepened, it sunk through my arm with sharp stings. This was when my knees gave in, I let myself sink to the floor, letting out a low groan. Clutching my arm I thought about Phil again.

I'd let him down so much, I told him I wouldn't get like this again, but guess what? I fucking did. I'd taken a lot of pills and my stomach began twisting. Phil was in danger, because of me, and he barley even knew it. I just can't think of any better ways to deal with it. I'm so fucking stupid. Now Phil's stormed off and I don't know where he is. What if they found him? They'd know I'd been lying, and they'd hurt him. They'd come straight back for me.

My mind stirred back to when I'd met Phil for the first time again, at the train station. I hated thinking about it, when I did the image wouldn't leave. Phil's cries, sweat, his blood on the ground. I shook my head, let out a muffled 'no' and took my knee's into my arms. The memory was so dark, and I didn't want to go into that place. I let my right hand slide under my left sleeve, feeling the wound from earlier. Upon my touch, an intense piercing pain shot up my arm and to my neck, adrenaline pulsed through my veins as the pain forced reality back into my head, clearing more of the fog.

I wanted all the fog gone. I didn't know what was happening, I didn't know where Phil was. I could barley make out what happened a few hours ago, or why the wound on my arm was even there. I needed more pain. I rolled up my sleeve and inspected the wound, and realised there wasn't just one. A collection of large, fleshy burns, crimson shining through my skin. I dug my nails into one and dragged it through the skin.

The pain shot down my arm again. It was intense, but I could feel the twisted pleasure swimming round my head. I dug harder with my nail into the same burn, I couldn't breathe, my vision clouding. The pain brought back the nights events, the images flooding back to my head. But I didn't stop once I got them, I kept digging, harder, until red tears started forming around the burn and black clouded over my vision, and it all stopped.