Betting on You

What the fuck was I doing?

Going to her house??

I’d been serious about trying to help her, mostly because Bailey seemed so wide-eyed and trusting that she was going to be shattered when reality reared its ugly head. I knew we weren’t going to be able to stop it, because life, but at least if we fought, she wouldn’t feel helpless.

I fucking hated feeling helpless.

Because helplessness was a little like waterboarding (I said a little). Someone else has all the control while you feel like you can’t breathe and like it’s never going to stop.

Logically you know it will—eventually that bucket is going to be empty, right?—but that doesn’t help the panic when the dousing is constant.

God, I’m so fucked-up.

But helping her was one thing.This text is property of Nô/velD/rama.Org.

Going to her house to help her?

Terrible idea.