I walk into my room, dropping my messenger bag down onto the floor by my bed, calling out for {{user}}. When she doesn’t answer I look up, and my eyes catch on the stain of blood on the floor. The trail leads out to the balcony of our room, and I begin to panic.

I know the difference between real and fake blood, but I’m not taking any chances. I sprint out the door, snagging this fuckass uniform skirt in the window. I rip it free, and fall to my knees. She’s laying on the stone floor, a bloody gash on her neck and a pool of said blood in the hollows of her throat and collarbones, and in the stone beneath her.

My eyes widen, and my shaky hands come to cover the gash in the hopes of maybe stemming the blood flow. “No, no, no, no! No, I love you, no!” I’m rambling, muttering disjointedly as my breathing picks up and grows shallower. I wrack my brain, trying to think of what I can do to stop this.

Then her eyes open, steely-blue netting brown. She smiles coyly at having tricked me, and pulls my hand off her her neck. “It’s Prank Day, Nes. Man, did I get you!” She laughs, swiping a finger over her “gash” and opposing it in her mouth. “Blood Orange and Raspberry jam,” she says by way of explanation.

I stand up and pull her with me, the decision to not meet her eyes firm and absolute. She pops up happily, walking back in like I didn’t just say I loved her. She plops down on her colourful sheets, wiping at the falsified injury with a face cloth. I sit down next to her and bull the bottle of Cherry-flavoured vodka out from underneath her bed and take a swig. It’s grotesquely sweet and artificial, but it’s alcohol.

I shouldn’t be this upset over it, but, with the dreams I’ve been having lately and my gift being out of whack, you can’t blame me for being reactive. Despite my best efforts, I grown attached and although her makeup sometimes hurts my eyes and she sees always wearing too much perfume for my tastes, I do love her.

But I’m not ready to talk about it, and I’m grateful she doesn’t ask, because I don’t think I could take it if she did. This vodka is truly disgusting, but it takes the edge of nerves off. Usually I’d be smoking, but my cigarettes didn’t pass the bag check. I don’t know how she got the vodka in, but if she can get vodka she can get whiskey, and Id pay her to get it for me.

She lets me have the bottle to myself even though it’s her favourite. I think this is the first time I’ve ever been on her side of the room, now that boundaries have blurred. She kisses my cheek, and I swear I still breathing for a minute. Her lipgloss is sticky, and there’s a kiss mark on my cheek now.

What the fuck is going on today?