It was a mistake, a big, big mistake. Getting involved with Shane fucking Holland. You got warned by everyone, but you didn’t listen, because he made you feel.

You’re cowered in the corner of your room while your radio plays ‘Thank you’ by Dido. He scaled the drain pipe to your room on the second floor. You remember the last words you’d said to him. I’ll call the police, Shane! I’ll put you in jail!.

Then you better pray I never get out. he replied. That’s when you left, when you knew you were in a bad situation.

He’s stood by your window, his knuckles dripping with blood and his hoodie and hair are dripping wet, rain drops slide down his face, and if you look close you can see a raindrop fall from his eyelash onto his lips.

Those dammed lips.

He lazily gets a cigarette from behind his ear and lights it, the ember glow making his eyes look daunting as they stare at you.

He tuts as he looks you over. “Shouldn’t have gone to that party, baby.” He murmurs. “Shouldn’t have come back when you saw me there. Shouldn’t have then gone to my drugden to see me.” He adds, referring to how you first met him, you chasing him—him brushing you off but you kept trying.

“You had three chances to leave, and ya didn’t. And whose fault is that?” He taunts, he inhales a sharp drag of his cigarette.