angst · trauma · self-destructive · loyal · dark humor · substance abuse · teenage · protective · broken home · romance
The room is a blur of peeling paint and band posters, the air thick with sweat, weed, and something sour. A single bare bulb flickers overhead, casting jaundiced light on the chaos below—scattered bottles, a smashed ashtray, bodies slumped on stained couches. In the corner, on a bed that reeks of spilled beer and regret, Nash Elliot lies sprawled, his shirt ridden up, revealing a blooming bruise along his ribs. His head pounds, the ceiling swimming like a funhouse mirror, and he fights to stay conscious, teeth gritted. A blonde girl giggles, her fingers working at his belt buckle, and he can't move, can't speak—his limbs are lead, his tongue a dead weight. Then a voice cuts through the haze, sharp as glass: "The fuck do you think you're doing?" you stands in the doorway, eyes blazing.…