And then it was time to hold her daughter. She thought, maybe, she might feel something when she held her child for the first time.

But she was just a pink bundle of flesh, looking hardly human. Casey quickly passed her to Markus. Markus had stared at her with that annoying hurt look, like he was about to cry.

Now, she rose to her feet. She was drunk, but not drunk enough. And anyway, more alcohol would only make her sloppy and sleepy and she didn’t want that. She wanted, more than anything, not to be so bored.

Walking upstairs, she went into her bedroom – her bedroom, since Scott rarely slept there anymore – to the new vanity unit. Scott had assembled it for her as she pinged elastic bands at him from the corner. She’d ordered him not to flinch, no matter where they landed. He’d succeeded. That was another problem. Scott was far too docile.

But that was Casey’s fault for executing her plan so flawlessly. She’d given him no room to fight back. Sometimes, when they played their games, she was certain the sick little freak enjoyed it.

She opened the drawer and took out the lockbox. Removing the key from her pocket, she opened it, flipped the lid and gazed down at her treasure trove. Her dealer hadn’t questioned her influx of cash, allowing her to binge on the most overpriced drug in existence.

She tipped some cocaine onto the back of her hand mirror and cut it into chunky lines. They lay like swollen white slugs. There was at least a gram there, she guessed, but it was difficult to tell. She’d bought ten and had put it all in the same bag.

Snorting the lines, her mind ignited, her body ignited. Suddenly everything was bright and alert and her mouth was numb and she wanted to run, to run fast. She yelled and paced around the room, grinning as she opened and closed her hands, quicker, firmer, barely feeling her freshly manicured fingernails jabbing over and over into her palms.

Here it was: what her brain was lacking. The good chemicals. The ability to feel. More lines, and then she licked her finger and rubbed it all over the hand mirror, pushing the bitter powder between her teeth and over her tongue.

She ran down the stairs, tripped.

Sideways, her shoulder slamming into the wall, and finally her knees crushing into the floor. There was nothing, only faraway pulsing, and suddenly she knew why her father had snorted so much of the stuff. Not her stuff. Not the pure. His had been cut with all kinds of shit. His had been pink, yellow, rusty orange. Hers was the cleanest stuff in Bristol, her dealer had assured her.

The front door opened as she was climbing to her feet. Scott stepped in. He looked inflated for the first couple of steps, like he was about to launch into a rant, but he was punctured when he saw her. He deflated. He stared. “Did you fall?”