He didn’t wake up until the following afternoon.
And when he did, the mattress was soaked in blood. From his damaged breasts. And his own f*****g anatomy.
The side of streaked blood smeared his thighs in clotted ribbons made him throw up in the sink, and then the stench of alcohol made him do it again. Only when he dug the knife so hard around the rusting cuff that fresh blood bubbled free did Stefan feel the icy grip of panic and disgust ease.
He smoked the last of the weed, gargled the last of his mouthwash to rid himself of the acrid taste of his own stomach contents, and went straight back out.
The world was blindingly bright, and everything hurt. Not just his sore guts and aching head, but his heart, too. The cuff felt loose and slippery over his bleeding thigh. He felt lost and l
