I stumbled from the bed into the bathroom, ignoring the mirror and its accusing stare. For a second I thought I was going to lose the rest of my liquids all over the faucet, but I managed to scarcely retain them beneath my swollen tonsils.
My fist curled, and slammed into the porcelain, knocking the glass Q-tip holder onto the grubby tile. The crash didn’t even faze me. I hated Johnny. Not because of what he did, but because, even afterwards, he still wasn’t there when I woke up. I had sold what was left of my soul for him and he wasn’t even there to say “good morning.” I sniffled, and reached up to wipe the black tears that were forming in the corners of my eyelids. I tasted blood mixed with the acid in the back of my throat. My lips pressed together and released a wad of red saliva into the sink. Everything was red. And blue. And purple.
And after another round with the Needle, everything was golden.