Page 27 of Relapse

Inside, little pink skull pills knock softly together.

Cute, and yet concerning.

Very on brand for me lately.

I tap one out into my palm before tossing it onto my tongue, the bitter chemical taste hitting almost instantly while I chase it with warm vodka from a neon flask some girl in fairy wings handed me after telling me I looked “ethereally unstable.”

Which realistically might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.

The pills came from one of Dagger’s guys outside the motel earlier.

I don’t know his actual name.

Just that he hangs around the vending machines sometimes looking like nicotine addiction became a real person.

Silver rings, hollow cheeks and old band tees. Eyes permanently bloodshot like sleep abandoned him years ago.

He spotted me on my way out of the motel, platform boots pounding down the cracked walkway while I adjusted my tiny holographic butterfly clutch against my shoulder and mentally pretended I wasn’t still thinking about Dagger wrecking me against his kitchen counter.

Which, for the record?

Was going terribly.

The guy pushed himself off the railing beside the vending machines when he saw me coming, cigarette dangling from his mouth.

Reached into his pocket, pulled out the little baggie of pink skulls, and held it out between tattooed fingers like this was completely normal behavior for a girl who’d literally overdosed a few months ago.

Like I hadn’t almost died doing this exact shit before.

Same tiny pink skull.

Cyanide.

“Hey pretty bird, looking to fly tonight?” he’d said casually, like he was offering me gum instead of chemically enhanced poor decision-making.

I should’ve said no.

Probably.

Instead I took the familiar holographic baggie that’s haunted my dreams, my bloodstream, and at least three questionable life choices already this year, tucking it into my pocket while the guy watched me with that look dealers get when they already know exactly how the night’s gonna end.

Then I headed toward the ocean where bass already echoed faintly down the shoreline from the beach bash starting up, the sound vibrating through the humid night air like a pulse calling people toward it.

I took the first pill halfway there.

Just enough to soften the sharp edges and stop thinking about Dagger’s hands on my throat in the kitchen. To make the guilt and anger and missing them blur together into something warmer.

Then somewhere between the flashing entrance lights and the bass vibrating hard enough through the sand to scramble my remaining brain cells, I realized the little pink skull dissolving on my tongue was technically the second one tonight.

Which probably says something deeply concerning about me psychologically.

Unfortunately, I’m choosing not to unpack that right now.

Because apparently I process emotional devastation the same way raccoons process shiny garbage.

Poorly.

But enthusiastically.