("Tell us about it," Mileston murmurs. The anger that had been between the two strong men had subsided. The boy is looking down at the ground, his dirty hair covering his face. "What's there to know? You already know." The boy whispers.)

I sat curled up on my bed, my blanket pulled tightly around me. I had to help myself. I needed to do something to make myself feel better.

("Not quite," Mileston says calmly. "I want to know what lead up to what you did. Every little detail.")

The house was so quiet without Nikki. No music, no clicking of a keyboard, no random bursts of screaming or beautiful singing.

(The boy looks up. He smiles. "You really want to get inside of my head?")

I missed her. A lot.

("I do," Mileston says. "I do.")

It had been almost two weeks since she had left. She was going to be back in another two, but I was so bored, so lonely, and so sad. I needed my lady around. Even if she didn't know it, I considered us to be in a kind of relationship.

("It's going to get messy," The boy says, almost too quiet to hear. Mileston has to strain his ears. "But it's a beautiful mess, it is. It all started when my parents bought me my first drumset.")

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Later that evening, Ricky showed up at the house in a black and gray British flag sweatshirt and black skinny jeans.

"Party. Let's go," he demanded. I sighed, slipped on a pair of jeans that I had left on the floor in the living room (The house had also grown extremely messy while Nikki was away, and random articles of clothing were all over the place. The result of my laziness.), a sweatshirt hanging on the coat hook, and a beanie underneath a couch cushion.

"We're gonna get waaaaaasted!" Ricky laughed. "Spanky's throwin' it tonight. You know how hard he goes."

"Harder than Austin Carlile in the mother fucking paint..." I mumbled half-heartedly. I didn't care. Perhaps getting drunk would be good for me.

("And it ended with a bang.")