"I want to die."

"No you don't."

"Yeah I do."

"No, Jinx, you don't want to die, you want your sister to kick Sky out of the band and apologize for hurting you and then make it up to you by finding you a girlfriend and a new singer who may or may not be the girlfriend she found you."

"You're right, I do want to kill them."

"Jinx, no," she sighed. Even in the dark I could see the circles under her eyes. For the last few days, she had adjusted to my sleeping schedule which consisted of a fitful hour or two of restless rest after collapsing randomly from pure exhaustion. She was really more of a "doesn't wake up until after noon and then naps at three" kind of person, and my lifestyle wasn't working out for her.

"Jinx, yes." I'm sure my words would have come across as more convincing if I had been capable of speaking louder than a whisper or if my voice wasn't raw from disuse.

Marsh didn't seem to think my weak argument was worth addressing. She simply rolled over to face me and stared listlessly at my vacant expression.

The next words out of her mouth shocked me a little. "Get over yourself Jinx."

I blinked, lazily tearing my gaze from the ceiling. "What?"

She made a noise between disappointment and annoyance and said a little louder, "You're a mess and it's creeping me out. Pull yourself together."

I didn't have enough energy to get angry with her, so I simply asked, "Why isn't this bothering you?"

It was as if the air deflated from her body. She just kind of sunk further into the mattress and became one with the sheets. "Because," she whimpered. "If I was a mess, who would deal with you?"

I scoffed. Or at least I tried. "I'm not your responsibility, Marsh. And I'm not accepting that as a real answer. Does it not hurt you when the people you love don't accept you?"

Her reply, once again, confused me. "It doesn't matter. I don't care."

"How? How does that not matter?"

"Look, Jinxie," she groaned, pulling the blankets up to her neck, "stuff like that just doesn't bug me. I don't let it."

I stared at her a long time, at her perfect side profile, her long eye lashes, her messy hair, the three chins made of blankets, and I still couldn't wrap my mind around what she'd said. How could you not be hurt? Angry? Anything?

"I really don't understand you, Marsh."

She turned her head back to me, her eyelids close to shut. "You're mad enough for the both of us, love."

"That's really not how that works."

She didn't grant me a response.

Sure I had a short temper, and sure my high school principal recommended I get a therapist, but I only got mad about things that mattered. Like my sister siding with a dickfaced homophobe. Or traffic.

I simply cared about a lot of things. I was a passionate person. Passion is good.

I sighed, pushing myself up to sit against the wall.

"Am I really mad all the time?" I whispered, but Marsh was fast asleep. I combed my hand through her hair, massaging her scalp, earning a quiet hum of thanks. "I mean, this feels justified. Why aren't you ever angry? Doesn't anything make you mad? Do you just lay there on my lap with an empty head everyday or what?"

I poked at her ear and she grumbled a bit before settling back down.

"Don't you have passion, Martian?"

I tried to think back over the years, to the things she liked and the things she cared about. We skipped classes, went to concerts, played the guitar, ate a lot of fast food. I drug her everywhere with me, and she never complained, but she never expressed any preferences either. Even in my memories, Marsh just kind of was.

She liked her guitar, she liked music, she liked her car, she liked her family, her house, her friends, her band. She liked lots of things. She was an agreeable person, exceptionally pretty, and willing to go along with anything. I knew these things for certain. But somehow knowing all those things still felt superficial.

I'd known Marsh for years, and she was always there holding me back from punching people in the face. She knew my buttons better than I did, but it felt like I hadn't even found her control panel.

I sat straighter, getting an idea. I glanced around the room for a journal, but the closest was over on her desk. A little jittery for a pen after days of doing nothing, I was admittedly a bit frantic trying to find a way to untagle myself from the bed sheets.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," I whispered, trying to get off the bed without disturbing her. I stopped for a second by her bed to whisper "we're a trope," in explanation, but I doubt both that she was listening and that it explained anything.

I sat down at her desk--the one we had carved all over in high school--and flipped open a pad of paper. Across the top, I scribbled "Who the Fuck." I figured I could tame the title later. Inspiration had struck and maybe, just maybe, it was gonna be okay.