Emery runs towards Camrice and wraps her in a tight hug. Hand in hand, they walk into a classroom.

The scene morphs into another. Skin and sheets are tangled. 

“Camrice,” Emery gasps.

Everything fast forwards.

Camrice slams the door, a bottle in one hand, a cigarette in the other.  Her hair resembles tangled sheets; her face loopy with run-down mascara. 

“Emery?” she slurs. “Fucking so tired. The hell, where are you?”

Emery  slowly appears from the bathroom, her hand gripping the doorknob as she closes the door. 

“Where’s my bag?” Camrice scans the room, jaw clenched. She flips over the rug and rips the blanket off the bed. “Where. Is. It.”

“I don’t know,” Emery whispers, a loud CRASH! making her flinch. Shards of glass spill across the floor; a picture floats to the ground. 

“WHERE. IS. IT.” 

Emery’s back collides with the wall.

“Tell me.” Camrice leans in, her lips barely an inch away from Emery. It gives her a sense of déja vu, but something about it is different. “Where is my bag?”

“I…” 

Emery flinches when Camrices hand reaches out to touch her cheek. It’s comforting in a way, but her actions don’t match the look on her face. 

“Pathetic,” she spits and shoves Emery’s head against the wall. Her halo flickers.

Flashes to the next day. Camrice sits on the bed with her head in her hands. Emery’s got her arm around her. 

“I’m so sorry,” says Camrice’s muffled voice. “I was drunk. I–”

“It’s alright.” Emery kisses her cheek. 

At least I think it is, she thinks. 

“We’re done.”

The dorm is a mess. The beds toppled, clothes everywhere, shards of glass from the shattered window. It reeks of cigarettes.

“Don’t give me that crap,” Camrice hisses. “Fucking whore.”

“I mean it this time,” Emery snaps. 

Camrice grabs Emery’s wrists, practically stopping her bloodstream. “Say that again.”

Emery lifts her head high, looking Camrice dead in the eye.  “We’re done.”

Everything goes black. 

Screams fill the air.

“Here is your room.” 

The room is bright now. Emery is standing in an empty room with a bed tucked in the corner. She is holding a box. Mrs. L stands near the doorway, a sad smile on her face.

“I wish you a quick recovery,” she says.

The scene glitches. 

I open my eyes.