Staring at the ceiling, Jamie pressed the pad of his pointer finger to the center of his tongue. He held his hand there, aching to shove his fist down his throat until he choked on his own vomit. The song pounding through the speakers of his phone wasn’t even close to the volume he wanted it to be. The words about pressing fingers into eyes hit him unlike it usually did. He pulled his finger out from his mouth and then pressed both pointer fingers over his closed lids. The pain bloomed like flowers in the rising sun. He laughed at the imagery. He was sure that he looked insane. There was no way to brush off what he was doing as a playful act. It felt like if he pressed any further he might rupture his eye. There would be blood all over these beautiful white sheet.

He’d only feel a little bad for the maid that would find his body.

He gave a long lengthy sigh that sounded like he was about to die right then and there. He felt it. Down to the tips of his toes. The pain in his chest grew to the point he thought something might just snap. It wouldn’t take much to push him over the edge. A bad headache. Heartburn. Someone knocking on the hotel door asking if he needed anything.

Niceties. He hated them as much as he hated himself. They were lies that people did because they thought they could win something in return. They really didn’t care about the person they were doing something for. It was just a game. Whoever won it in the end could never be brought down. Because they were the nice one.

Jamie was always on the other side of the fence. He was the bad boy that caused more trouble than he was worth to keep around. The label said that. The media said that and the world had written him off as some fucktard that loved kicking dogs and drowning cats.

That was fine. As long as they left him alone.

A knock came to the door then.

“Go away!”

The knock got louder.

“Jamie! It’s me!”

The ‘me’ turned out to be Grant. His squeaky voice that cracked when he yelled could be picked out of a riot by all the times that Jamie had heard it. And though he would have loved to tell him to fuck off like he was so graciously used to, Jamie was bored to hell.

He rolled out of the fluffy bed. A grunt fell from his lips. He smacked them to get the bad taste out of his mouth, but it still lingered. Like a stain, it was pressed into his tongue. His body ached from lying down for so long though he would have liked to keep sleeping. It was a good kind of ache in which he wished it could consume him.

As he stood on his feet, he sagged against the glass table pressed against the white wall. Trash was thrown all over it. Ripped bag of chips and candy wrappers fell as he swept his hand over the surface, trying to find something sturdy to grab onto. He missed and staggered forward. He rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hand, frowning deep in reaction to the black spots that bloomed in his vision.

A moment just like this flashed before him. The images were static, glitching as if he were flicking through the channels of an own television box. He squeezed his eyes closed. The images came faster. His stomach turned as bile pressed at the back of his throat. Hot tears came up. He held them back with all the strength he didn’t have. He was weakened.

The moment faded to black. It was lost to a sea of regrets which he couldn’t ever change. There was no reason to think about any of it. What was done was done. It was what it was.

But the disappointed face that had flashed before him forced him to remember the lowest point of his life.

“Fuck off.”

The bedroom door opened. He hadn’t noticed the front door opening or the footsteps coming toward the door until then. When he looked up, Grant was standing with a case of beer and a Wal-Mart bag in the other hand.

“Me?” He looked like he was about to burst into tears. If he were a dog, Jamie wouldn’t have been surprised if his ears would be turned down.

Jamie groaned once more at his misfortune. Was it really that hard to ask for a day alone? Though he was bored as hell from being locked up, it was a battle between his social wanting and his sour mood. He wanted someone there while he smothered himself with all the dark thoughts his body could handle.

Grant walked into the room and sat a bag of McDonald’s on the glass table. Jamie snatched the bag without asking and fell back on the bed. The fall rocked the bed. The bedside table shook as the bed frame hit it. The glass cups pushed together so they weren’t on the edge, clinked, leaving a sharp resonating sound upon Jamie’s sensitive ears.

He grabbed a burger from the bag, unwrapped it with a clumsy hand—tearing the paper across one corner—, and took a large bite that made his jaw ache. He swallowed it down and took another bite, throwing the ripped paper to the ground.

Grant let out a sigh as he picked it up.

Jamie shook his head in disgust. “You’ve been spending too much time around Mr.-I’m-Better-Than-Everyone-Else.”

Though he talked a big game against Marshall, his eyes still flicked to the doorway. It would be just his luck if Marshall decided to show up right then. He did have the key.

And while Marshall got to go wherever he wanted, Jamie was stuck in this hotel room unless Marshall said he could leave. That sounded a lot like kidnapping, but somehow management could get away with it.

Fucking cunts.