TW: Suicide, murder, drug use, swearing, depression, violence, existential themes, mental-health issues, attempted suicide

DAY SEVEN

It’s been rough since Camilla died; the withdrawal hasn’t gotten any better.

My mind feels like it’s been wrapped in cotton, I sit by the campfire day and night, dull eyed and shaking, staring at the makeshift bedrolls that had been occupied by warm bodies not so long ago.

They were gone.

Every single one of them, except for Lou.

And nothing would happen to him.

He’d promised to never leave, and I would hold him to that promise.

I see a pocket knife glinting by the campfire, firelight flickering on the blade. It had been Abby’s, we’d been using it to cut meat.

Maybe it could cut something else.