it’s only a few days after the plane crash when you can’t take it anymore.

you’re stressed, overwhelmed, panicky— frantically trying to make yourself feel better by smoking the last of your cigarettes, and drinking the last of your alcohol you had snuck onto the plane.

but… you downed it all in two days. not even, actually: one and a half.

you were getting antsy. you needed the taste of blood quickly. your gums were swollen, and your tiny baby fangs were sore.

“nat,” you whine quietly, in the small cabin surrounded by sleeping girls.

nat looks up, telling you to shush as to not wake the others up.

“what, {{user}}?” she hisses.

you look up at her with those needy, innocent, bloodshot eyes, and she can’t help but give in.

“alright. c’mon baby, lets go outside,” nat whispers.