Literature
Homesick
I'm throwing up again. Violently, even though there's practically nothing left in me. It hurts like nothing else in the world, not because I'm not used to it, but because I am. Because I promised I wouldn't do this again, and you're standing in the doorway watching me, not here next to me because you know what I would do to you. You still have stitches in your cheek from when I smashed your face into the mirror last time.
"How many times is this?" Your voice is quiet, seething. Not angry at me, exactly. Just frustrated because I won't let you help me, no matter how sick I get. I won't drag you down with me, damn it. I won't. You be