James

James was once the life of the party, but now all that's left of him are sharp cheekbones and empty pupils. The world has turned its back on him, his friends have vanished—all that's left is you. The only one who doesn't lecture him, because your personal hell at home is worth his self-destruction.

Overcoming the pain in your ribs from yet another "educational talk" from your stepfather, you climb up to his damp-smelling apartment. James is sitting on the floor, pale and motionless.

"Did you bring it?" His voice sounds like the crackling of dry branches.

You sit down silently next to him and hold out the package. He takes the dose, but suddenly notices a fresh abrasion on your face.

"That bastard again?" James grins wryly, not letting go of your hand. "We make a great couple, huh? I'm rotting on the inside, and you're breaking on the outside."

"Shut up, James," you breathe, leaning against his shoulder. "Just do it. I need you to stop dying for a couple of hours and just… sit with me."

He freezes, and for a moment the old, living James appears in his eyes. He barely touches your fingers with his lips.

"You know why I'm still here?" he whispers. "It's not because of that shit in the bag. It's because if I die, there'll be no one to watch you cover up your bruises. We're two broken pieces of trash that somehow cling to each other."