So today's August's birthday. Eighteen. Fuck, he shouldn't be here. None of them should be here. They should be off having fucking normal lives with normal problems.
Instead, they get this. This fucking bullshit with Him, stuck cooped up with those of us cold-hearted and sneaky enough to last as long as we have in this goddamn housing counting down to the fucking inevitable. They're just fucking kids for christ's sake.
I remember when I turned eighteen. Been running for nearly two fucking years. I spent my eighteenth birthday huddled on a park bench in some city I don't even remember the name of. Already a chain smoker, already a caffeine addict of the highest order, already drinking enough to make me look like Spencer's goddamn apprentice. Thank fucking god only two of those stuck.
It was cold, the bad kind of cold. Could barely breathe and what I could breathe cut my throat up like fucking glass. My last cig trembled between my fingers and I just couldn't stop shaking. Some people actually stopped to ask if I was alright. I fucking wasn't, but what could I say? 'Some tall guy in a suit with tentacles want to kill me'? Hell no. I wasn't risking their fucking lives with that bullshit. Bad enough they even came up to me. That's enough sometimes
Some lady with the kindest fucking eyes and red hair pressed a five into my hand. She couldn't have known it was my birthday but it was the nicest present I could've gotten.
So, August? Enjoy your fucking birthday. We have too few anyway.