The Beginning of the End of Me
Violet
The days after the party stretch strangely—too long, too fast, and all at once. My routine holds steady because it has to: Ella off to school, clinic shift, errands, dinner, dishes, laundry, and then collapse. Repeat. But my head won’t stop moving. Certain images keep circling like they’re caught in the spin cycle of my brain—the lights, the music, the crush of strangers, and the slick thrum of bass in my bones.
And him. Always him.
My phone shrieks beside my bed, cutting through the fog of almost-sleep. I groan, tangle myself upright, and fumble until my fingers close around the damn thing.
“Hi,” I mumble, voice sandpapered from dreams I barely remember.
“Well good morning to you too, sunshine!” Cami chirps, far too alive for a human being at this hour.
“Morning,” I mutter, rubbing my face, raking a hand through my hair like that’ll make me sound less dead.
“So, I got a call from my other supplier,” she says, breezy as brunch. “And it looks like someone noticed your little contribution to the party.”
My stomach drops right through the mattress. “What do you mean noticed?”
“Relax, Vi. It wasn’t bad. They just wanted to know what it was and where I got it. I told them you were a friend doing me a favor. Easy.”
“Cami, you can’tjust—”
“Oh, please,” she cuts in. “It’s fine. It’s just Mav. They’re not mad. Actually, they’re… interested. You might’ve just made a name for yourself with these people.”
“Perfect,” I say flatly. “Just the career milestone I was aiming for.”
She laughs, utterly unbothered. “Anyway, they want more. And there’s another party this weekend. I already told them you’d take care of it.”
I sit up straighter. “Cami, are you out of your mind? I can’t just—”
“You can,” she steamrolls. “It’s easy money, they’re clearly into it, and I’ll be there. What’s the worst that could happen?”
I could list the horrors alphabetically, but arguing with Cami is like trying to stop a train with your palm. She hears objections as encouragement. She should have been a lawyer.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Because that old memory hits—the one that always hits—and I’m gone.
Ella curled against me months ago, shaking so hard I felt it in my teeth. She’d woken screaming, clawing at my shirt, sobbing until her words broke apart.
“They were there, Vi,” she’d whispered, terrified. “Mom and Dad. I saw them. The headlights—”
I had held her until her breathing softened, whispering anything gentle enough to bridge her back to sleep. But I didn’t sleep. I lay staring at the ceiling, hating every inch of my own helplessness. Wanting more than anything to take her pain and crush it in my fists.
And I promised myself—quietly, desperately—that I would find a way to give her a life where nightmares were not the only thing she inherited.
I swallow hard. The weight of that promise settles where my ribs feel too tight.
What else am I supposed to do?I’ve worked extra shifts. Tutored. Sold Mom’s jewelry. Stretched every dollar until it screamed. And still—short. Every time. Langport doesn’t care about excuses.
The first time I did this… God. I told myself it was temporary. A one-time bridge to something safer. But the money came fast, and the need stuck to me like humidity in August. The guilt lingered, but the relief always won. At least for a while.
And now?Now I’m standing at the edge of the same decision I swore I’d never touch again.
The justification machine starts on its own, humming through me like muscle memory. One more time. Just this once. Just enough to catch up. I can control it. I won’t let it spiral.
But I know. I know I’m lying to myself.
“I’ll text you the details,” Cami chirps. “And wear something cute. You never know who you might see.”
